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1 


\ 


LONDON  SOCIETY. 


%n  lllttstratjeb  SJa^a^im 


OF 


LIGHT  AND  AMUSING  LITERATURE 


ros 


THE  HOURS  OF  RELAXATION, 


VOLUME  XVI. 


LONDON; 

OFFICE,  217,  PICCADILLY,  W. 

1869. 


LONDON: 

rRI3«TED  BT  WILLIAM  CLOWES  AMD  SONS,  BTAUrORD  STREET 
AND  CnARI^O  CROSS 


CONTENTS. 


Cnsrab(tis)if. 

Drawn  by  Page 

A  Clever  Dog 462 

A  Dilemma         ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  Wilfrid  Lawson.  136 

A  Winter's  Night           T.  MoHen.  550 

At  Albert  Gate Gordon  2 homson,  274 

Dark  or  Fair      -.          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  Tousnley  Green,  224 

Down  at  Westminster TTw. -Brtiaion.  289,  292,  294 

Dear  December B,  Ridley.  496 

Filo  and  Fide     ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  Horace  Stanton,  64 

Going  to  Mudie's            ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  LoiU$  Huard.  448 

Humours  of  the  Iioad     ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  WilHam  Brunton.  241 

In  the  Heart  of  the  Eailh          . .          . .          . .          . .          . .  Gordon  Thomson.  54 

Is  it  for  this? C.  BobcHs.  49 

London-super-M<ire         .,          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  Horace  Stanton,  417 

Mr.  Hardcastle*s  Friendly  Attentions     ..          ..          ..          ..  Adelaide  Claxton,  208 

Nina  at  the  Cottage  Window     ..          .,          ..          ..          ..  Wilfnd  Lawson,  193 

Nina  Listening „  236 

Only  for  the  Season „  386 

Park  Kangers      ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  William  Brunton.  105 

Botten  Row        Gordon  Thomson,  97 

'Saved*             Wilfrid  Lavson.  327 

Second  Blossom  . .  ..  ,.  ..  ..  ..       J.  J).  Watson, — Frontispiece. 

Studies  from  Life  at  the  Com-t  of  B>t,  James's : — 

No.  V.     H.H.R.  The  Ci-own  Princess  of  Prussia   ..          ..  George  H,  Thomas.  80 

VI.    H.R.H.  Piincess  Beatrice             „  192 

vn.     H.R.H.  The  Princess  of  Wales „  288 

VIII.     Lady  Elma  Bruce            „  384 

IX.     Countess  Reventlow         . .          . .          . .          . .  „  480 

Too  Late!          Wilfrid  Lawson,  74 

The  Affair  of  the  Red  Portefeuille         A.W.  Cooper  490 

The  Archery  Lesson       ..         ..          ..         ..          ..          ..  Horace  Stanton  169 

The  Cmsh  Room            G,  Crmhshank,  Jun,   96 

*  The  Dinner  Party' Wilfnd  Lawson.  385 

The  Engaged  Ring         n,Newoombe,^  513 

The  last  Boat  of  the  Season  from  Margate         . .          . .          . .  William  Brunton.  353 

The  Love  Bird  of  the  West        365 

The  Sportsman's  Resolve           G,  B.  Goddard.  528 

Which  of  the  Three? To'cnley  Green,  127 

Who  Comes  Here?         H.  Paterson,  319 


163825 


17 


Contents. 


Cross  Purposes. — In  five  Chapters    . . 
How  Mr.  Hinter  Won  aiid  Lost  his 

Seat  for  Golborough     

In  the  Heart  of  the  Earth         . .      . . 
M.  or  N.  :— 

SIX.  An  Incubus 

XX.  The  Little  Cloud     ..      .. 
XXI.  Furens  Quid  Foemiaa 
XXII.  Not  for  Joseph 

XXIII.  Anonymous 

XXIV.  Parted 

XXV.  Coaxing  a  Fight 

XXVI.  Baffled' 

XXVII.  Blinded 

XXVIII.  Beat        

XXIX.  Kight  Hawks 

XXX.  Under  the  Acacias  . . 
Mr.  Hai-dcastle's  Fnendly  Attentions, 
and  what  csme  of  them  : — 
Chap.  I.  Bewilderment  at  Brighton 
II.  What    happened     at    the 
Zoological  Gardens     .. 
Ill,  Riding,  Dining,  and  Lore- 
making       


150 


Page 


531 
50 

65 
70 
75 
128 
133 
139 
231 
235 
320 
326 
330 
336 


103 
197 

204 


Mr.  Hardcastle's  Friendly  Attentions, 
and  what  came  of  them — continued. 

IV.  Whom  shall  she  marry  . .    208 
V.  After  the  Honeymoon'    ..   210 

Only  for  a  Season : — 

Chap.  I.  Dr.  Seeker  makes  a  Pro- 
fessional Visit     ..      ..   385 
II.  The  Meet  at  Bedford  Biidge  388 

III.  The  Youns:  May  Moon   ..   391 

IV.  Lady  Crevi lion's  Letter  ..    394 

V.  Amongst  the  Fallen  Grain  306 

VI.  Drowned  in   the  Bay  of 

Naples        ..       ..'  ..   39^ 

VII.  In  the  Pleasant  Dyke  ..401 

ViiT.  AreyouSo}Ty?      ..  ..   402 

The  Alfair  of  the  He^l  Portefeuille  ..481 

The  Thi-ec  Overheai-d  Whispera : — 

Chap.l.  TheFiretWhisi)er  ..      ..        I 
II.  The  Second  Wliisper        ..       4 

III.  The  Thii-d  Whisper         ..        6 

IV.  In    the    Forest    of    Fon- 

taiiibleau 9 


Jbltttcf^eir. 


A  Harp  Accompaniment 123 

Afternoons  in  the  Park     97 

Ancient  Hostelries : — 

No.  ni.  Concerning    Angels,   Dra- 
gons,   and    ceiiain  an- 
cient Palaces       ..      ..  25 
Dolgelly  and  its  Attractions      ..      ..  56 

DoveDnie 38 

Going  to  Mudie*s       445 

Govemesses       348 

Heniy  Parry    Liddon   and  Anglican 

Oratory 467 

Light-headed  Sovereigns 212 

Mr.  O'Reilly 528 

Opposite  a  Cabstand 491 


Outsldei's  of  Society,  and  their  Homes 

in  London      ..  ' 339 

Parisian  Clubs  Past  and  IVesent  . .  13 
Sketches  in  the  House  of  Commons  : — 

No.  I.  The  Front  Treasmy  Bench  112 
11.  Ditto,  ditto  (oon/mutfrf)  ..  275 
III.  The  Front  Opposition  Bench  367 
Sketches  from  our  Office  Window: — 

From  Midnight  to  Midnight . .  . .  418 
Summer    Days     among    the    White 

Mountains     ..      .' 144 

The  Early  Days  of  Napoleon  III. : — 

Chap.  1 405 

II 560 

The  Matrimouiai  Agent 181 

Veiy  Old  P.'ople       90 


Contents* 


fSiiittXixmtivui  Ifiupttii. 


Pu{e 

A  Book  for  Fair  Women 522 

A  Provincial  Ball  in  France      ..      ..455 
A  Ran  to  the  South  after  Creatuie- 

Comfoiis     ..    170,  243,  354,  424,  552 
Orenznach  and  its  Sa1in<»  Cure  . .      . .   433 

i'odes  of  Ceremonial— N'o.  H 216  I 

Coi'sets  and  Corpulence      312  , 

Down  at  Westminster        289  I 

From  Remenham  Island  to  Heiilry   ..   107  • 

Furnished  Houses      449 

In  a  Kentish  Meadow — A  Retrospect     225  I 
Oxford  as  it  is 305  i 

Poppies  in  the  Corn;  or,  Glad  Hours 
in  the  Grave  Years : — 
No.  Yiii.  An  Autumn  Wulic        ..   253 

IX.  Old  Friends 514 

Public  School  Types 33 

Questionable  Faces 511 

Social  Superstitions 17 

The  Brompton  Hospital  for  Consump- 
tion         44 

The  Past  and  Future  of  the  Girl  of 
the  Period 463 


I'ago 
The  Piccidilly  Papers: — 

Forster's  Life  of  Lnndor       . .      . .     80 

The  Royal  Academy      83 

The  late  G.  H.  Thomas's  Exhibition 

of  Paintings       84 

Mistakes  in  Life 86 

Sleeplessness  and  Sleep 188 

The  Palestine  Exploration  Fund  ..  191 
Cmbb  Robinson's  Diary  ..  ..  263 
Mr.    Mill    on    the    Subjection    of 

Women 268 

The  Ventuor  National  Hospital  ..  270 
The  Seven  Curses  of  London..      ..   273 

At  Buxton 375 

At  Eel-pie  Island 377 

Mr.  Stopford  A.  Brook 379 

Notes  on  Books      381 

Scarborough 477 

Michaelmas  Term  at  Cambridge   ..   542 

Mornings  at  a  Studio 544 

Hunting  Waterfalls       546 

The  Regatta  Week  at  Ryde       ..      ..283 

The  Romance  of  Medicine .' 497 

Young  England  and  Young  America ..  412 


90etrp. 


A  Bunch  of  Withered  Violets    ..      ..     88 

AHeartUnfellowed 230 

A  Winter's  Night 550 

At  Albert  Gate — In  and  out  of  tlic 

Season 274 

Autumn 384 

DjirkorFair 224 

Desidei-ia 49 

FloandFido 64 

On  the  River 510 


Phases  of  London  Society — A  Qever 

Dog       462 

The  Archery  Lesson  169 

The  EngAged  Ring 513 

The  Lay  of  London-super-Mare        . .   417 
The  Lay  of  the  Crush  Room     ..      ..     95 

The  Last  Boat 353 

The  Love  Bird  of  the  West       ..      ..365 

Which  of  the  Three?        127 

Whocomeiheie? 319 


vi  Contents. 


CHRSSTMAS  NUMBER  FOR  88S9. 


FAOB 


9  €aat  Mti  H  fta  ftititng.    By  Iklork  Lemon.     (With  Two  nias- 

trations  bj  Charles  Eeene) .^         ..         ..         1 

tttaVLd  dSlaiiam :  or,  the  Ghriatmaa  Sermon.    By  the  Author  of  *  The 

Harvest  of  a  Quiet  Eye.*    (niustratod  by  J.  D.  Watson)  ..         ..        8 

C^e  <Si\tett  €uitnmtr*    By  Angelo  J.  Lewis.    (Illustrated  by  Gordon 

Thomson)         IS 

lail^an  at  €bxvitnua  €imt*    (Illnstrated  by  H.  Melville)      ..  28 

C^rilttmotf  tf^C  Sbenser  !    (Brawn  by  Gordon  Thomson)  ..  33 

Hais}  Mr.  etikim  Betarxurs  %U  C|^urc|)  at  ef^viitnua*  (mnstrated 

by 'Sartor') 34 

IT^e  Wa^itt  Eairs  nt  Cltm^ertele.    A  Tale  in  Throe  Chapters.    By 

Lord  Charles  Thynne 3i> 

fiSLr.  iBaiDbam«    A  ttxle  in  Five  Chapters.    By  T.  W.  Robertson,  Author 

of  *  Society,' '  School/  &c.    (With  Two  Illustrations  by  J.  Mahoney )    . .  46 

C^e  Sitatiilff  EfM0n.    (Drawn  by  Charles  Roberts)        5G 

fB^t  M^tl  af  JLKlt^axa  ^ttxj^.    By  Edmund  Yates        57 

Cf)0  C]gru(tmatf  Cre^*    (niustrated  by  W.  Luson  Thomas)  ..  64 

Ci^e  ittttt  of  Calderlesi  Caurt.    By  the  Author  of  '  Ruth  Baynard's 

Story.'    (lUusfcrated  by  John  Gilbert)        6a 

Chapter  L — Guess-work. 

II.— Xn  Old  Home, 
IIL — A  Revelation. 
IV.— A  Voice  in  the  Night. 
Y.—The  Secret  TM:  The  Secret  Kei^U 

Eittle  ULatrg  aountlfuL    (Drawn  by  Alfred  Crowquill) 80 

Cfie  Columtillrt  e^tiitmsA  Sream.    (Drawn  by  William  Brunton)  80 

Htnta  t^e  Cliafr  fnent  CaraXliiis  at  €fyc\AimKi,    (Illustrated  by 

M.  Ellen  Edwards) 81 

tE^t  €%X\Atxani  %alCtrasii(  at  WUi^in^SiXU    By  George  Makepeace 

Towle 86 

^t  38Iacil  »0I.    A  Mysterious  Travelling  Story.    By  aement  W.  Scott  92 

SEHuitratf If  fflouble  <Sitxoiiit^         7, 28. 34, 57, 63,  96 


• 


',♦  The  Solutions  to  the  Acrostics  unll  appear  in  the  February  Numher. 


lit  ri  rt'U  Til IV 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


JULY,   1869. 


•I  WATCHED  AND  WAiTXD.'— See '  M.  OF  N.,'  page  7«. 


THE  THKEE  OVERHEABD  WmSPERS. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

THE  FIB8T  WHISPER. 


NIGHT  after  night  the  music 
clashed  in  our  rear.  It  was 
Tery  pleasant  and  interesting,  as 
we  lounged  about  in  our  little 
garden,  or  took  coffee  in  the  small 
bnilding  that  serred  ns  for  a 
snmmer-honse.  We  were  liying  in 
VOL,  XYI.— Ha  xci. 


Paris,  and,  for  the  sake  of  economy, 
quite  close  to  the  barriers,  for  the 
rents  get  wonderfally  cheaper  as 
yon  clear  away  from  the  Gnamps 
Elys^  and  the  Faubourg.  Now 
close  to  our  residence  there  was 
some  place  of  public  entertainment, 

B 


The  Three  Overheard  Whitpere. 


the  Salle  d'Artois,  I  think  they 
called  it  We  did  oot  mnch  like 
the  proximity,  bnt  there  was  never 
any  noise  or  distorbanoe,  and  the 
crash  of  the  music  through  the 
summer  air  was  at  times  pleasant 
enough.  It  is  astonishing  what 
children  in  respect  to  amusement 
our  heroic  neighbours  are.  In  the 
pettiest  locality  they  get  up  some 
parody  of  a  theatre  or  some  imita- 
tive Mabille.  I  am  bound  to  say, 
however,  that  our  Salle  d'Artois 
was  a  considerable  ornament  to  our 
avenue,  which  converged,  like  many 
other  identical  avenues  close  by,  to 
the  main  boulevard  and  the  per- 
petual rond  point.  There  was  a 
revolving  gate  to  the  salle,  or 
jardin,  before  which  the  inevitable 
gendarme  lounged,  and  on  each 
side  there  was  a  bowery  expanse 
of  foliage,  and  in  the  foliage  were 
niched  statues,  daspedly  holding 
lamps  that  shed  a  mild,  seduc- 
tive lustie.  The  general  notion 
conveyed  by  the  whole  was  that  this 
illumiuated  pathway  led  you  on  to 
some  ideal  hall  of  du zling  delight ; 
but  we  knew  by  the  view  from  our 
back  windows  that  the  place  was  a 
mere  bam,  and  that  it  belonged  to 
that  nnmerons  claas  of  entertain- 
ments of  which  the  best  part  is  to 
be  seen  on  the  outride  and  for  no- 
thing. A  very  modaiate  price — 
half  a  frane,  I  thtuk— would  give 
admission,  and  of  this  half  franc 
half  was  to  be  returned  to  the  ticket- 
holder  in  the  way  of  oonmmmation. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  mushroom  sort  of 
concert  or  casino  place,  of  which  so 
many  spring  up  in  the  outskirts  of 
Paris,  and  which  provided  a  kind 
of  rough  entertainment  for  local 
patrons  who  wanted  to  do  things 
cheap,  and  to  be  saved  a  journey 
into  Paris. 

The  salle  might  be  necessary  for 
those  people  in  Lts  2erne«  who  in- 
sisted upon  some  kind  of  amuse- 
ment everv  m'ght,  and  who,  rather 
than  not  have  it,  would  shoot  for 
nuts  or  ride  on  horses  in  a  whirligig. 
We  Britishers  do  not  require  much 
amusement,  and  when  we  take  it 
we  like  it  of  the  very  best.  I  don*t 
know  how  often  I  had  passed  the 
alluring  portal  of  the  salle  with  its 
coloured  lights.    I  don't  know  how 


often  I  hadn't  had  the  benefit  of  its 
rapid  dance  music  But  I  can  truly 
say  that  the  remotest  intention  of 
visiting  this  choice  place  of  amuse- 
ment never  crossed  my  mind. 
Neither  can  I  explain  to  myself  up 
to  thin  day  how  I  ever  came  to  do 
so. 

I  remember  that  it  had  been  very 
hot  all  that  day ;  that  I  had  stopped 
at  home  trying. all  sorts  of  com- 
binatioDS  with  ice  and  eau  de  Seltz, 
which  had  the  invariable  efifect  of 
making  things  in  general  much 
hotter;  that  in  the  evening  I  had 
gone  to  two  or  three  places  where 
that  day  was  the  reception-day ;  that 
I  had  come  back  and,  as  my  custom 
was,  had  smoked  and  taken  coffee, 
looked  through  the  'Moniteur  du 
Soir'  and  'Le  Petit  Journal,'  fa- 
vourite publications  in  our  econo- 
mical quarter  of  the  city.  After 
that,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  I 
took  my  little  constitutional  torn 
round  the  garden,  smelling  the  wall- 
flowers that  were  our  chief  horti- 
cultural ornament  Then  I  paused. 
It  was  onze  heures.  Being  a  man  of 
r^ular  habits,  as  an  ordimry  matter 
I  should  have  gone  in-doors,  have 
tampered  with  my  constEtution  with 
some  moieioed  eflferveBciBg  drink, 
and  oompoaad  myself  towards  slum- 
ber witha  book.  But  the  music  was 
crashing  so  enmhatically  that,  to 
the  dismay  of  Uie  concierge,  who, 
relying  on  my  regular  habits,  had 

foue  to  bed,  I  sallied  forth  into  the 
oulevard.  'I  declare,'  I  said  to 
myself,  '  I  will  look  up  our  little 
salle  to-night.  There's  nobody  who 
will  know  mo.  And  I've  heard  the 
music  so  often  that  they  ought  to 
see  the  colour  of  my  money.' 

Near  the  entrance  there  was  a 
narrow  lano—about  a  stone's  throw 
off.  I  think  I  see  it  now,  narrow, 
and  so  dark  from  the  huge  buildings 
that  lined  it  And  in  the  lane  tlmt 
night— I  remember  it  so  well— was 
a  private  cabriolet,  with  a  dark- 
coloured  panel,  and  two  servants  in 
livery,  waiting  in  a  leisurely  way, 
as  servants  wait  who  have  waited 
long  and  have  long  to  wait  Then 
I  paid  my  coin  and  the  enchanted 
portal  received  me.  I  advanced  up 
the  fairy  path,  which  came  to  an 
abrupt  termination    at   the   first 


The  Three  Overheard  Whispers. 


^arve.  I  emerged  on  a  mere  shed, 
imcoTered  and  opening  on  a  bit  of 
ground,  the  general  effect  being  en- 
tirely sordid,  the  sordid  effect  har- 
monizing with  all  the  accompani- 
ments. There  was  some  dancing 
going  on,  of  an  irregular  and  free- 
and-easy  kind,  a  few  only  indulging 
in  terpsichorean  yagaries,  while 
many  more,  seated  at  little  or  long 
tables,  looked  critically  on.  Not  a 
few  men  were  in  blouses,  and  some 
women  in  caps,  a  genuine  omiriere 
class,  which  had  been  working  hard 
all  day,  steadily  looking  forward  to 
their  evening's  relaxation.  Then 
there  were  some  very  dressy  young 
>men,  with  companions  equally  orna- 
mented. Cigars  and  cigarettes  were 
freely  going.  Beer  appeared  to  be 
the  popular  beverage — the  black 
beer  or  the  biere  de  Strasburg, 
-or  that  cheap  fizzing  beer  of  Paris 
which  I  suppose  a  g9od  restaurant 
would  hardly  admit.  Such  as  had 
Bordeaux,  or  vin  ordinaire,  were 
jnollifying  it  with  water  and  sugar. 
There  were  also  one  or  two  cada- 
verous men  who  even  at  that  hour 
were  partaking  of  the  infernal  ab- 
sinthe. One  young  man  I  especially 
noticed,  who  was  very  quietly 
dressed,  but  whose  yery  superior 
appearance  seemed  tacitly  recog- 
nized. He  was  smoking  a  cigarette 
and  sipping  some  maraschino. 

Then  the  band  played  a  fine  piece 
of  music,  and  played  it  finely  too ; 
an  overture  to  some  little-known 
•opera  of  Bossini's.  Afterwards  one 
of  the  band  went  round  collecting 
coins  in  a  saucer— another  evidence 
•of  the  lowly  aims  of  the  establish- 
ment I  gave  largesse,  remembering 
that  this  was  not  the  first  of  my 
obligations  to  the  musicians.  The 
maraschino  man,  whose  offering  was 
expected  with  ill-repressed  anxiety, 
dropped  in  the  delicate,  glittering, 
■sb'ght  five-franc  gold  piece.  Pre- 
sently a  functionary  announced  that 
Mademoiselle  Eose  would  fEivour  the 
company  with  a  song,  and  there 
was  the  heavy  thud  or  knock  which 
in  Prance  so  ungracefully  announces 
-a  new  phase  in  an  entertainment. 

When  Mademoiselle  came  for- 
ward I  gave  a  start;  for  if  ever 
Mademoiselle  was  equivalent  to 
Miss,  it  was  so  here.  And  when  she 


b^an  to  sing,  though  the  pro- 
nunciation was  French,  the  accent 
was  English.  She  sang  sweetly,  but 
without  much  force,  as  sentimental 
a  French  song  as  such  an  audience 
could  be  expected  to  bear.  I  watched 
her  face  with  much  anxiety.  It 
was  a  very  pretty  face,  and,  to  my 
pleased  astonishment,  it  had  an  ex- 
pression of  goodness  and  honesty 
about  it,  on  which  I  am  afraid  I 
had  no  right  to  count  in  such  a 
place  and  amid  such  a  company. 
Her  dress  was  fastened  up  to  her 
throat,  close  fitting,  and  very  neat 
and  simple.  Her  manner  was  alto- 
gether lady-like— not  the  imitation 
lady-like  of  many  minor  profes- 
sionals, but  genuinely  and  un- 
affectedly so.  I  confess  I  began  [to 
entertain  a  very  lively  feeling  of 
interest  for  the  young  cantatrice.  I 
thought  I  should  be  glad  to  make 
her  acquaintance.  My  motive  was 
entirely  Platonic  and  philanthropic. 
I  belong  to  the  uninteresting  order 
of  Benedicts,  and  my  notion  was 
that  I  should  like  my  wife  to  make 
friends  with  this  young  girl,  who 
perhaps  had  no  English  friends,  and 
who  was  certainly  very  unfavour- 
ably situated,  and  save  her  from 
what  I  felt  must  be  a  miasmatic 
moral  atmosphere. 

When  she  had  finished  singing, 
she  made  her  curtsey  and  took  her 
seat  at  a  little  table  near  the  buffet 
of  the  salon.  It  appeared,  then,  that 
she  was, not  likely  to  retire  to  a 
green-room— indeed  it  was  hard  to 
see  where  anything  at  all  corre- 
sponding to  a  green-room  might 
have  a  geographical  position— but, 
with  an  opera  cloak  thrown  over  her 
shoulders,  continued  an  object  of 
public  admiration.  I  moved  to- 
wards her  table,  and,  relying  on  the 
integrity  of  my  intentions,  was  about 
to  make  a  self-introduction  to  her. 
I  was  anticipated,  however,  by  the 
gentleman  whom  I  had  noticed  as 
the  only  gentleman  in  the  place, 
who  finished  his  maraschino,  threw 
away  his  cigarette,  and  came  over 
and  sat  by  her  side.  She  gave  him 
a  winning  smile  of  welcome— they 
were  evidently  no  strangers — and 
entered  into  that  close  conversa- 
tion that  would  evidently  tolerate 
no  intrusion.    They  were  talking 

B    2 


The  Three  Overheard  Whi^^s. 


French,  which  she  OTidently  under- 
stood qnite  well.  I  waited  a  little 
longer,  in  the  expectation  that  she 
might  sing  again,  bnt  there  were 
no  signs  that  this  was  likely  to 
happen.  Then,  as  it  drew  towards 
midnight,  I  left  the  nlace. 

But  somehow  I  aid  not  care  to 
turn  in  even  then.  I  paced  up  and 
down  the  boulevard,  smoking  my 
cigar  in  the  balmy  starlight  night. 
Seyeral  times  I  passed  the  entry  of 
the  jardln.  The  people  were  coming 
out,  and  by-and-by  they  came  out 
in  a  considerable  number.  Then  I 
knew  the  entertainment  was  come 
to  a  close.  The  carriage  was  still 
standing  at  the  entry  of  the  dark 
narrow  lane,  but  the  servants  were 
manifestly  getting  under  weigh  for 
departure.  I  went  leisurely  along 
to  the  end  of  the  avenue,  and 
then  turned  once  more,  taking  the 
same  path.  The  carriage  had  now 
emerged  from  the  lane  into  the 
boulevard,  but  was  creeping  on  at  a 
very  slow  pace,  and  presently  be- 
came stationary.  Turning  up  from 
the  boulevard  into  the  avenue,  I 
came  suddenly  on  a  young  girl  and 
a  man  close  by  a  bench  beneath 
some  linden  trees.  They  were  not 
sitting,  but  standing.  They  did  not 
vouchsafe  mc  any  notice,  but  I  re- 
cognised at  once  the  songstress  of 
the  evening  and  the  gentlemanly 
young  Frenchman.  She  was  leaning 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  sob- 
bing grievously  as  if  her  heart  would 
burst.  To  me  it  seemed— but  the 
action  was  so  momentary  that  I 
could  not  be  sure— that  he  was 
pointing  with  his  hand  towards  the 
carriage  that  was  now  within  sight. 
Of  course  I  could  not  venture  to  say 
a  word,  or  even  to  pause,  but  as  I 
walked  very  deliberately  past  them, 
I  heard  a  convulsive  sob,  and  then 
in  English,  in  a  low  tone— quite  a 
whisper — 

'  Oh,  no,  no !  It  cannot  be  until 
Friday? 

When  I  again  turned  back  to 
resume  my  customary  round,  the 
door  of  the  cabriolet  was  being 
opened  by  a  servant,  and  methought 
it  was  the  same  young  man  who 
was  entering,  but  I  could  not  be 
certain.  The  young  girl  was  sitting 
absorbed  in  thought  on  a  bench- 


not  the  same  bench,  but  another 
higher  up  the  avenue.  With  a 
sudden  impulse  I  moved  to  address 
her,  and  respectfully  raised  my  hat. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  an  expres- 
sion of  the  greatest  terror  passed 
into  her  face,  and  she  arose,  and  fled 
like  lightning  down  the  boulevard, 
and  was  soon  lost  amid  the  6tem& 
of  trees. 


CHAPTEB  IL 

THZ  SEOONB  WUiUPXB. 

I  confess  that,  before  I  went  to- 
sleep  that  night,  my  mind  was  fall 
of  speculations  on  this  little  scene. 
At  first  I  was  full  of  commiseration 
about  this  young  girl,  concerning 
whom  it  was  quite  clear  that  she 
was  lonely  and  that  she  was  un- 
happy. Next  my  imaginative  faculty 
set  to  work  weaving  a  tissue  of  ro- 
mance to  suit  the  somewhat  strange 
events  that  I  had  witnessed.  I  men- 
tally resolved  that  I  would,  make- 
a  point  of  dropping  in  at  the  Salle 
d'Artois  for  the  next  few  nights, 
and  observe  how  matters  in  general 
were  progressing.  In  the  morning, 
over  the  practical  business  of  de- 
jeuner a  la  fourchette,  the  little 
romance  of  last  night  lost  all  its 
colouring.  There  was  nothing  so- 
remarkable  that  an  English  girl 
should  be  singing  at  a  place  of  en- 
tertainment, that  she  should  have  a 
French  sweetheart,  and  that  her 
French  sweetheart  should  make  her- 
cry.  I  had  no  business  in  the  world 
to  obtain  a  surreptitious  view  of 
those  tears.  Then  I  did  not  see- 
how  I  could  carry  my  evening's  in- 
vestigations any  further.  That  m'ght 
we  were  going  out  to  dinner  to  meet 
at  the  apartment  of  some  English 
friends  who  invariably  kept  us  very 
late.  The  night  following  we  had 
the  offer  of  a  private  box  at  the 
Theatre  Fran9ais— an  offer  too  good 
to  be  refused.  I  must  postpone 
any  inquiry,  or  rather  let  the  matter 
drop  altogether.  Everybody  gets 
familiar  with  the  experience  of 
letting  a  thing  drop.  There  is  some 
clue  to  a  difliculty,  but  we  cannot 
carry  it  out;  some  fresh  pursuit, 
but  we  have  no  time  to  prosecute 
it;  an  interesting  correspondence!,.. 


The  Three  Overheard  Whispers. 


bat  we  nrnst  give  it  up ;  a  new  in- 
trodnction,  bat  we  cannot  stay  to 
fiee  whither  it  may  lead;  and  as 
grapes,  hanging  so  high  that  we  don't 
<!ate  to  take  the  troable  of  climbing 
for  them,  are  probably  sour,  I  told 
myself  that  the  salie  was  a  brutal 
hole  not  worth  entering  again,  and 
that  anything  I  thought  remarkable 
about  the  girl  was  simply  the  result 
of  my  own  frivolous  fancy. 

I  may  as  well  tell  the  reader 
what  was  my  business  and  mode  of 
life  in  Paris.  I  was  a  journalist, 
doing  French  work  for  English 
papers  and  English  work  for  French 
papers.  I  occupied  the  dignified 
jKMition  of  Paris  correspondent  to 
the  '  Goketown  Daily  Press/  a  flam- 
ing radical  diurnal  journal  which 
was  published  in  one  of  our  great 
industrial  centres.  The  proprietors 
insisted  that  I  should  give  my 
casual  conversations  with  great 
ministers  of  state  and  retail  all  the 
gossip  that  I  might  hear  at  the 
Imperial  ball  at  the  Tuileries.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  very  rarely  went 
au  chateau,  and  my  visits  were 
limited  to  occasions  when,  the  court 
bemg  absent  from  Parid,  I  obtained 
the  usual  order  to  go  over  the 
palace.  Still  I  occasionally  played 
a  game  of  billiards  with  one  of  the 
attaches  of  our  embassy,  and  I  also 
knew  a  set  of  journalists  to  whom 
lists  of  political  iaformation  occa- 
sionally oozed  out.  One  of  them, 
being  of  a  metaphysical  tone  of 
mind,  told  me  that  he  could  '  pro- 
ject himself  into  any  political 
situation,  and  having  arrived  at  all 
the  data  at  command,  he  thought 
himself  justified  in  making  details 
out  of  his  own  inventive  faculty. 
Availing  myself  of  these  hints,  I 
proclaimed  to  my  Goketown  con- 
stituents plans  of  the  Emperor  for 
promoting  the  gradual  growth  of 
constitutionaUsm  and  the  gradual 
approach  of  his  frontiers  to  the 
Rhine.  For  the  Parisian  journal  I 
edited  and  expounded  the  English 
news,  and  occasionally  wrote  an 
article  on  any  subject  of  interest 
that  might  arrive. 

To  any  one  familiar  with  the  tear 
and  fret,  the  hurry  and  worry  of  a 
London  newspaper,  the  change  to 
Ptu-isian  journalism  was  most  de- 


lightful. My  paper  was  an  even- 
ing paper,  and  that  saved  the  night- 
work.  Occasionally,  if  it  was  a 
sainfs  day  or  fgte  day,  and  the 
workmen  wanted  a  holiday,  we 
omitted  our  usual  issue,  and  it  did 
did  not  make  much  difiference. 
Then  the  way  of  transacting  busi- 
ness was  highly  pleasing  to  the 
journalistic  temperament.  The 
hours  between  eleven  and  one  are 
perhaps  the  busiest  to  our  nation 
of  shopkeepers;  but  to  the  Pari- 
sians it  is  a  time  of  great  ease  and 
negligence.  They  take  their  break- 
fasts at  caf§s  and  afterwards  peruse 
the  papers,  sip  h  petit  verre,  and 
ogle  the  women  that  pass  by.  If  I 
wanted  to  find  my  newspaper 
manager,  M.  Alphonse  Eock,  about 
midday,  I  knew  that  I  had  only  to 
go  to  a  certain  caf6  on  the  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens,  and  I  should  find 
him  picking  his  grapes  or  smoking 
his  cigarette  with  a  glass  of  liqueur 
by  his  side.  It  was  about  noon  that 
I  thus  sought  mon  cher  ami,  Al- 
phonse, to  see  if  he  wanted  a  few 
paragraphs  for  his  evening  issue,  or 
could  give  me  any  sparkling  items 
whereby  the  '  Goketown  Daily  Ex- 
press' might  astonish  the  provin- 
cial mind. 

'  There's  a  girl  run  away  from  a 
convent,'  he  said.  '  They  brought 
a  paragraph  to  the  office  last  night. 
You  English  people  always  like  to 
know  any  scandal  about  a  convent' 

'  There's  a  good  deal  of  scandal 
about  them  at  times,'  I  said,  argu- 
mentatively. 

*Ah  yes,  perhaps,  poor  little 
beggars  1'  said  Alphonse.  '  I  don't 
think  it  does  for  us  to  notice  this 
sort  of  thing  in  our  pax)er.  Gatholic 
opinion  is,  after  all,  very  strong  in 
Paris.' 

'Anything  very  sensational?'  I 
inquired.  *Did  the  superior  have 
her  whipped  and  kept  on  hread  and 
water  ?  did  some  gendarme,  through 
a  grating,  espy  her  in  a  dungeon  ? 
did  some  one  pick  up  a  piece  of 
linen  torn  from  her  nightdress  with 
an  imploring  entreaty  written  in 
blood  V 

'  Oh,  no,'  said  Alphonse,  laughing ; 
*  you  will  not  have  to  write  anothe  r 
chapter  of  the  "  Mysteries  of  Paris-', 
It  is  some  convent  where  there  is  a 


TJie  Tlirce  Overheard  Whispers. 


large  and  good  Ecbool,  but  tbey 
don't  say  the  name  of  it.  If  I  re- 
collect aright,  it  was  neither  novice 
nor  nun,  but  some  teacher,  who  had 
a  right  to  go  out  a  good  deal,  and 
vent  out  one  day  and  didn't  come 
back.  It's  rather  a  spiteful  para- 
graph, and  calculated  to  get  up  a 
little  scandal  and  gossip.  But  the 
groimd  won't  do  for  us  to  tread  on. 
But  will  you  have  the  paragraph  ?* 

But  as  the  paragraph  did  not 
seem  to  be  sensational,  I  declined 
the  offer,  and  was  soon  at  work  on 
the  funds  and  the  Suez  Canal,  and, 
what  was  a  still  more  important 
matter,  inquiring  whether  the  Em- 
press really  intended  to  put  down 
the  chignon,  a  point  on  which  Coke- 
town  would  naturally  feel  very 
anxious. 

So  I  went  about  my  usual  ayoca- 
tions  that  day,  and  tbat  matter  of 
last  night  had  quite  faded  away 
from  my  mind.  It  was  nay  custom 
in  those  days  to  go  and  hear  the 
band  play  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Tuileriep.  This  lasted  from  five 
to  six  o'clock.  It  was  a  pleasant 
conclusion  to  the  labours  of  the 
day,  and  gave  plenty  of  time  to 
dress  for  dinner  afterwards.  You 
paid  two  sous  for  your  cbair,  and 
tiien  a  seat  was  provided  for  you  in 
tbat  open  circular  space  in  the 
midst  of  which  the  band  was  sta- 
tioned. You  heard  the  music 
better,  to  be  sure,  and  you  had  a 
seat ;  but  the  beat  was  not  so  much 
mitigated  as  if  you  were  in  one  of 
the  alleys  directly  under  the  trees. 
The  sun  was  very  fierce  that  sum- 
mer day,  aud  I  was  driven  to  give 
up  my  seat.  I  went  to  a  tree  where 
I  could  rest  myself  partially,  and 
also  peruse  a  programme,  being,  as 
I  call  myself,  'constitutionally 
tired,'  which  my  enemies  construe 
as  being  *  habitually  lazy.'  In  the 
path  behind  me  two  ladies  were 
pacing  restlessly  about  Once  or 
twice  they  would  pause  apparently 
to  listen  to  the  music,  and  then  at 
once  they  resumed  an  eager  conver- 
sation with  which  the  music  had 
nothing  to  do.  I  confess  that  I 
had  a  momentary  feeling  of  irri- 
tation against  these  ladies.  If 
people  don't  care  for  music  why 
do  they  come  to  musical  places? 


They  were  my  own  countrywomen,, 
and  I  morosely  thought  that  only 
English  people  would  be  guilty  of 
such  bad  taste.  What  business 
had  they  there  chatting  and  jabber- 
ing instead  of  listening  to  the 
music  ? 

Paris  was  at  this  time  overflow- 
ing with  English  visitors,  though 
many  of  the  French  residents  were 
away.  The  Legislative  sittings 
were  just  coming  to  a  conclusion. 
But  as  these  two  Englishwomen 
once  more  promenaded  down  the- 
path,  they  hardly  appeared  to  be 
sununcr  visitants  belonging  to  any 
excursion  of  pleasure.  I  had  done 
them  an  injustice.  It  was  not  mere 
'  chat  and  jabber/  as  I  had  termed 
it.  On  the  face  of  at  least  one  of  them 
there  was  an  expression  of  terrible- 
anxiety.  The  eye  was  wild,  and 
the  arm  wildly  struck  out  almost  in 
an  attitude  of  despair.  As  they 
once  more  jmsscd  by  me,  the  elder 
one  was  speaking,  and  I  heard  her 
say  in  a  compressed  whisper  of  in- 
tense emotion,  '  I  should  break  my 
heart  if  she  has  elojml  from  tJte  con- 
vent  ivith  any  Frenchman' 

So  saying,  thty  turned  abruptly 
from  the  alley,  and  went  through  a 
deserted  path  in  the  direction  of 
the  river. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE  THIBD  WHISPES. 

The  next  night,  my  wife  and  I, 
and  the  young  attache'',  were  at  the- 
Theatre  Fran9ai8,  at  the  Palais 
Eoyal,  occupying  a  state  box. 

1'his  was  not  one  of  the  little 
amenities;,  as  might  bo  supposed,  of 
journalism.  The  box  had  been  lent 
to  the  embassy,  and  the  embassy 
had  given  it  to  the  attachd,  and  the 
attache  had  placed  it  at  our  dis- 
posal, subject  to  the  pleasant  condi- 
tion of  his  own  excellent  company. 

It  was  a  most  delicious  box,  such 
as  you  often  get  in  Paris,  but  never 
in  London.  The  London  box  re- 
treats into  bareness,  ugliness,  and 
shadow ;  but  behind  the  sittings  in 
this  box  there  was  a  perfect  minia- 
ture little  dmwing-room— a  salon, 
cosy  with  couches  and  glittering 
with  mirrors,  where  any  number  of 


The  Ukree  Overheard  Whimpers. 


one's  friends  might  come  romid 
and  chat  between  the  acts. 

The  parterre  was  quite  filled^  not, 
as  in  the  Lcodon  pit,  with  a  plen- 
tiful sprinkling  of  women  and 
children,  but  with  a  critical  au- 
dience of  staid  men,  including, 
doubtless,  a  troop  of  daquenrs ;  but, 
never theless,  sure  to  give  even taally 
a  clear  discerning  verdict  on  the 
merits  of  a  new  piece.  It  was  a 
great  night  at  the  Fran^ais.  There 
was  a  new  piece  by  an  eminent 
author,  and  this  was  also  the  debut 
of  a  new  pupiL  Consequently,  the 
house  was  completely  filled,  and 
M.  Alphonse  Kock  and  his  backers 
were  there  in  great  force  that 
nighi 

The  actress  was  a  great  success ; 
she  was  one  who,  all  her  indus- 
trious and  innocent  life,  had  been 
working  for  and  looking  forward  to 
this  nighi  The  piece  was  so  good 
that  in  a  very  brief  time  it  was  pla- 
giarized for  the  London  and  New 
York  stage. 

In  the  interval  between  the  third 
and  fourth  acts,  I  had  taken  up 
my  loi^nette  and  glanced  through 
the  bouse,  and  in  the  stage-box  I 
saw  the  aristocratic  young  fellow 
who  had  been  talking  with  the 
pretty  English  singing-girl  at  the 
iSalle  d'Artois. 

That  had  been  on  the  Monday 
m'ght.  On  the  Tuesday  night  we 
had  been  out  to  dinner  as  I  had 
mentioned.  On  Wednesday  I  had 
been  concocting  my  lucubrations 
for  the  Coketown  daily  paper,  which 
heard  'from  our  own  correspon- 
dent' (great  emphasis  on  the  ou^n), 
and  to-day  we  were  having  this 
dramatic  treat  at  the  FranQais. 

'Do  you  know,'  I  said  to  the 
attach^  'who  that  man  is  in  the 
upper  stage-box  opposite,  with  the 
bouquet,  which  1  suppose  he  de- 
signs for  Mademoiselle  Reine  T 

'  Vary  likely,'  returned  my  diplo- 
matic friend.  'Papillon  will  be 
quite  in  love  with  Mademoiselle 
!Reine.  He's  a  terrible  fellow,  they 
say.  Would  you  li  ke  to  know  him  ?' 
he  continued.  'I  can  introduce 
you  presently.  I  shall  meet  him  at 
supper  on  the  boulevards.' 

•Who  is  ho?*  I  said. 

'Don't  you  know  him?   he  be- 


longs to  the  Jockey  Club,  and  is 
quite  a  great  man  just  now.  His 
feither  made  all  his  money  on  the 
Bourse ;  but  he  is  aristocratic-look- 
ing  enough  for  the  Faubourg  St 
Germain.' 

'  He  is  one  of  the  Imperialist  lot, 
then,  I  suppose ;  a  new  man  and  a 
rich?' 

'  Oh  yes,  he  is  rich  enough,  if  he 
doesn^t  gamble  it  all  away.  He  has 
got  money  atid  his  wife  has  money.' 

'  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
that  young  fellow  is  married  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,  he  is.  But  when  his 
wife  has  had  a  month  or  two  at 
Paris  he  sends  her  home  into  Nor- 
mandy, and  stays  on  as  a  bachelor. 
Lots  of  men  do  that  Paris  is  so  ex- 
pensive that  they  cut  the  Reason 
down  as  much  as  they  can.* 

'  Is  he  a  nice  follow  ?' 

'  Nice  enough,  according  to  Paris 
notions;  but  not  very  nice  accord- 
ing to  your  English  notions.  A 
selfish  lot,  1  expect  Very  gentle- 
manly, but  all  on  the  surface,  like 
most  of  them.' 

I  am  very  punctual  and  domestic 
as  a  rule,  but  having  seen  this 
young  fellow  under  such  very  dif- 
ferent circumstances  the  other 
night,  I  felt  a  curiosity  to  meet 
him.  I  accordingly  accepted  the 
attache's  offer  to  go  with  him  to 
the  supper  at  the  Maison  Dorce. 

I  put  my  wife  safely  into  the  car- 
riage which  wo  had  waiting  for  us, 
and  strolled  with  my  friend,  the 

Honourable  Mr.  R ,  along  the 

boulevards  to  the  cafe  where  we 
should  meet  Papillon.  There  were 
one  or  two  men  from  the  Jockey 
Club  there,  the  successful  drama- 
tist of  the  evening,  and  the  attache 
with  some  diplomatic  friends,  who 
relieved  the  labours  of  the  chancel- 
lerio  with  social  relaxation  at  the 
Maison  Dor(§e. 

The  supper  was  pleasant  enough, 
as  little  Parisian  suppers  always  are. 
But  it  is  unnecessary  that  I  should 
speak  of  it  unless  in  reference  to  our 
gay  young  friend,  Monsieur  Papil- 
lon. 

I  was  introduced  to  him,  and  he 
received  me  with  the  utmost  cr/*- 
prcssement.  His  smile  and  his  shrug 
were  of  the  stereotyped  Parisian 
character.    I  acknowledged,  how- 


8 


Tlie  Three  Overheard  Whi$pers. 


ever,  that  his  handsome  fi&ce,  his 
rich  complexion,  and  his  kindling 
eye  would  very  probably  make  him 
a  lady-killer,  and  his  slightly-broken 
English  speech,  which  on  the  whole 
he  spoke  exceedingly  well,  and  his 
foreign  accent  would  prove  little 
hindrance  to  his  killing  English 
ladies.  It  was  easy  to  see,  from  the 
little  he  said  in  conversation,  that 
he  was  devoted  to  pleasure  and  had 
an  utter  abnegation  of  all  principle. 
And  so  much  is  this  the  ordinary 
state  of  things  in  Paris,  that  I  have 
sometitues  wondered  whether  it 
might  not  be  for  the  ultimate  good 
of  the  world  that  Paris  might  be 
held  beneath  the  Atlantic  Ocean  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Monsieur  Papillon  stared  rather 
hard  at  me,  as  if  haunted  by  some 
recollection  of  my  face,  but  appa- 
rently he  could  not  identify  it  I 
had  a  momentary  thought  of  re- 
minding him  of  the  Salle  d'Artois; 
but,  less  from  any  reasonings  on  the 
subject  than  from  an  instinct,  I 
mentally  decided  that  it  would  be 
better  not  to  do  so. 

He  was  certainly  the  most  juve- 
nile and  joyous  of  Benedicts,  and 
wore  his  married  chains  as  lightly 
as  if  they  were  roses.  He  made  one 
or  two  jocular  allusions  to  'madame 
ma  femme,'  stowed  away  safely  in  the 
depitftment  of  Calvados.  As  supper 
became  prolonged,  Monsieur  Papil- 
lon said  he  would  send  away  his 
carriage.  Presently  he  told  one  of 
the  waiters  to  send  his  servant  in 
to  him.  At  once  a  rather  ill-look- 
ing fellow  entered,  whom  I  imme- 
diately recognised  as  having  seen 
the  other  night  amusing  himself 
with  the  coachman  while  the  car- 
riage was  waiting  in  that  dark  by- 
street in  Les  Ttrnes, 

Monsieur  Papillon  beckoned  the 
man  to  him  and  spoke  quietly  a  few 
words,  in  that  quiet  subdued  tone 
in  which  people  speak  to  servants 
when  they  do  not  wish  to  attract 
attention  or  to  disturb  company. 
Now  it  so  happened  that  I  sat  next 
but  one  to  this  gentleman,  my  diplo- 
matic young  friend  being  interposed 
between  us.  I  confess  that  I  leaned 
back  in  my  chair,  and  using  him,  as 
£Ar  as  I  could,  as  a  screen,  I  sought 
to  make  out  acythlDg  he  might  be 


saying.  The  attach^  spoke  to  me, 
and  I  gave  him  a  mechanical  an- 
swer. I  strained  every  nerve  to 
hear  what  I  could  of  that  whispened 
con ver^tion.  At  last,  slightly  rais- 
ing his  voice,  but  without  departing 
from  a  whiBper,  he  said~ 

'  Remember— the  Maisoa  DupofU  at 
F<mtainUeau* 

Soon  after  I  departed.  The  fun 
of  the  party  was  growing  too  fiut 
and  furious  for  me.  I  was  very 
married,  and  not  able  to  regard  con- 
nubial ties  so  slightly  as  that  but- 
terfly Papillon.  It  was  a  point  of 
minor  morals  with  me  that  I  should 
get  to  bed  by  midnight.  At  mid- 
night also  the  Salle  d  Artois  dosed. 
Somehow  there  was  an  impulae  on 
my  mind  that  I  would  go  and  sur- 
vey the  ground  and  see  what  the 
pretty  English  singer  was  doing 
with  herself. 

A  voiture  de  remi&e  took  me 
quickly,  and  I  arrived  at  the  sub- 
urban place  of  amusement  a  good 
twenty  minutes  before  it  dosed. 
But  the  company  was  thinning,  and 
in  a  moment  I  saw  that  the  princi- 
pal person  I  sought  was  not  there. 
I  took  some  re&eshment,  and  then 
tried,  not  unsuccessfully,  to  imitate 
the  ways  of  thoEe  people  who  make 
a  point  of  maintaining  friendly  re- 
lations with  waiters  and  proprietors, 
in  the  caf6s  they  frequent. 

'Had  mademoiselle,  the  pretty 
Englishwoman,  been  singing  that 
night?' 

*  Yes,  but  she  was  gone.  She  was 
gone  at  eleven  hours.' 

'  Would  she  be  there  to-morrow 
nighty 

'No — this  was  her  last  night.  Her 
engagement  was  terminated.' 

'  How  was  that?'  I  asked  next 
'  She  sang  very  nicely.  Did  not 
monsieur  the  proprietor  think 
so?' 

*  Yes,  certainly,  she  did  sing  very 
well — for  an  Englishwoman.  But 
the  public  required  novelties,  and  it 
did  not  do  to  keep  the  same  singer 
long  before  them.' 

'  Had  she  been  there  very  long  ?' 

'  Not  very  long.' 

Here  the  man  went  away,  and  to 
ray  mind  he  did  not  seem  to  care  to 
discuss  the  merits  of  the  young  lady 


The  Three  Overheard  Whispers. 


vrho  had  jtist  passed  away  from  his 
employ. 

That  night  I  looked  amid  the 
contents  of  the  parcel  which  M. 
Kock  had  sent  me  from  the  office 
for  the  paragraph  to  which  he  had 
referred,  bat  I  could  not  find  it. 


CHAPTEB  IV. 

IN  THB  F0B£Sr  OF  FONTAINBLBAU. 

The  next  morning  while  I  was 
dressing  I  took  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  wrote  down  the  three  whispers 
which  I  had  overheard  in  the  coarse 
of  the  last  three  days. 

They  were,  of  coarse— 

(a)  *  Oh  no,  no.  It  cannot  he  until 
Friday.* 

(b)  '  Ishouldhrtak  my  heart  ifsTie 
has  doped  from  the  convent  with  any 
Frenchman.' 

(c)  '  Bememher — the  Maison  Ihir 
pont  at  ForUainhUau* 

The  corioos  notion  had  somehow 
wrought  itself  into  my  mind  that  it 
was  possible  that  these  three  oyer- 
heard  whispers  might  stand  in  a 
certain  relation  and  connection  to 
each  other. 

It  was  just  possible,  bat  the 
chances  were  atterly  against  the 
truth  of  such  a  theory.  There  was 
indeed  a  certain  speciousness  in  the 
idea.  It  might  not  be  difficult  to 
invent  a  uunework  of  circum- 
stances into  which  these  three 
whispers  nught  be  tesselated  and 
inwrought  But  it  was  much  more 
eas^  to  suppose  that  the  different 
whispers  belonged  to  different  sets 
of  circumstances  standing  in  no  sort 
of  connection  to  each  other.  Of 
course,  on  any  doctrine  of  chances, 
the  odds  were  tremendously  against 
the  theory  of  any  such  correlation 
as  I  was  supposing.  Taking  the 
three  sentences  in  their  chronologi- 
cal consecutiveness,  what  on  earth 
could  a  Friday  have  to  do  with  an 
elopement  from  a  convent,  and  what 
on  earth  could  an  elopement  from  a 
convent  have  to  do  with  any  parti- 
cular locality  at  Fontainbleau? 
And  how  extremely  unlikely  it  must 
be  that  a  gay,  frivolous,  and  not 
over-reputable  place  like  the  Salle 
d'Artois  could  stand  in  auy  sort  of 
connection  with  the  staid  solemnity 


of  a  convent !  I  had  indeed,  it  is  true, 
certain  information,  beyond  these 
whispers  which  might  have  a  pos- 
sible connection  with  their  subject- 
matter.  There  had  certainly  been 
an  escape  from  a  convent  Here 
Kock's  newspaper  paragraph  pos- 
sibly corroborated  and  identified  the 
second  whisper.  But  I  could  not 
see  in  what  possible  connection  the 
remark  (b)  could  stand  to  (a)  and 
f  c).  It  was  possible  that  (a)  and 
(c)  might  stand  in  a  definite  rela- 
tionship. The  chances  of  a  coinci- 
dence between  the  two  were  immea- 
surably better  than  the  chances  of 
a  coincidence  between  the  three. 
The  existence  of  that  charming  gen- 
tleman Monsieur  Papillon  was  a  con- 
necting link  between  the  twa  Was 
it  also  possible  that  his  existence 
could  be  adumbrated  in  the  second 
whisper?  i.e.,  *1  should  break  my 
heart  if  she  has  eloped  from  the 
convent  with  a  Frenchman.'  And 
now  the  subject,  which  had  been 
gradually  growing  on  my  mind, 
made  me  feel  quite  hot  and  feverish. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  some  woeful 
drama  was  being  enacted  that  day 
in  which,  quite  involuntarily,  I  was 
called  upon  to  play  aprincipisdpart. 
And  this  very  day,  of  which  the 
golden  moments  were  slipping  away 
so  fast,  was  Friday,  the  day  on 
which  something  was  to  happen, 
the  scene  of  which  was  laid  at  Fon- 
tainbleau. I  flung  down  impatiently 
a  set  of  numbers,  which  nad  just 
come  in  by  post,  of  the  '  Coketown 
Daily  Press,'  although  they  con- 
tained some  choice  examples  of  my 
most  careful  observations  and  rear 
sonings  in  politics. 

'  There  is  sometimes,'  I  said  to 
my  wife,  'a  destiny  in  the  over- 
hearing of  whispers.  Do  you  re- 
member the  cranes  of  Ibycus  ?' 

But  my  wife  did  not  recollect  the 
cranes  of  Ibycus. 

'  Ibycus,'  I  said, '  was  a  poet,  who, 
travelling  through  a  wild  country, 
fell  in  company  with  two  evilly-dis- 
posed men,  who  set  upon  him  to  rob 
and  murder  him,  in  which  design 
they  succeeded  only  too  well  The 
dying  poet  looked  around  for  suc- 
cour, but  saw  nothing  but  some 
cranes  hovering  in  the  air.  "  Oh  ! 
ye  cranes,"  he  said, "  avenge  Ibycus !" 


10 


The  Three  (herheard  WhUpen. 


A  month  or  two  later  his  two  mur- 
derers were  in  an  open-air  theatre, 
and  some  cranes  were  Tisible  not 
far  ofiF.  "Behold,"  whispered  one 
man  to  another,  "the  cranes  of 
Ibycns!'*  Now  this  remark  was 
overheard.  Ibycns  was  bound  to 
this  city,  and  there  was  surprise  and 
consternation  that  he  had  not 
arrived.  It  was  manifest  that  these 
two  meo,  whose  physiognomy  was 
jwobably  hardly  in  their  fovour, 
knew  something  about  Ibycus.  They 
were  seized,  examined  separately, 
and  the  truth  coming  out,  were  both 
executed.  Now  these  providential 
cranes  brought  murderers  to  jus- 
tice. But  it  is  manifest,  my  dear, 
timt  the  casual  overhearing  of  a 
speech  was  the  moving  cause  of  the 
discovery,  though  the  cranes  have 
always  absorbed  the  credit' 

'  Well,'  said  my  wife,  '  your 
overheard  whispers  gave  a  time, 
which  is  to>day,  and  a  locality, 
which  is  Fontainbleau.  There  may 
be  something  worse  than  murder 
going  on.  Why  don't  you  go  down 
to  Fontainbleau  to-day  ?' 

I  was  astonished  at  the  direct 
simplicity  of  this  suggestion,  which 
had  not  occurred  to  my  mind. 

'  Because,'  I  answered,  *  I  don't 
see  how  a  convent  can  have  anything 
to  do  with  Friday  or  with  Fontain- 
bleau.' 

'But  I  thought  you  gentlemen, 
if  you  had  a  lot  of  data,  did  not 
mind  having  an  x  in  it,  but  sought 
to  solve  its  value  in  an  equation.' 

This  was  really  clever  in  the 
wife,  and  I  thought  there  was  some- 
thing clever  in  the  notion.  Still  I 
was  by  no  means  prepared  to  fling 
away  a  day  on  spec  and  make  per- 
chance a  bootless  excursion.  *  But 
don't  wait  dinner,*  was  my  uUima- 
tum,  '  for  after  all  I  might  go  down 
to  Fontainbleau.' 

I  presently  gained  the  knifeboard 
of  the  Courbevoie  omnibus  and  took 
three  sous'  worth  of  danger  down  to 
the  Louvre.  Then  I  continued  to 
walk  down  the  Rue  Ilivoli,  bethink- 
ing myself  that  it  was  all  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  rail  way  station  whence 
I  must  start  for  Fontainbleau. 

But  how  astonished  I  was  when, 
just  as  I  had  gained  the  beautiful 
tower  of  St.  Jacques,  I  came  upon 


the  very  two  women  who  had  so 
greatly  interested  me  in  the  garden 
of  the  Tuileries  the  day  before,  yes- 
terday. 

Without  the  delay  of  a  second  I 
advanced  to  them  and  took  off  my 
hat.  I  turned  to  the  elder  one,  who 
still  had  evident  marks  of  grief  and 
agitation  on  her  countenance,  and 
said — 

'Madam,  will  you  allow  me  to 
speak  to  you  for  a  few  minutes  on  a 
very  important  matter?' 

She  gave  a  little  shriek.  '  It  must 
be  about  Clara,  Mrs.  Bums.  Oh, 
sir,  tell  me  where  is  my  daughter?* 

I  asked  them  if  they  would  step 
across  the  road,  and  enter  into  the 
little  endofiure  around  the  Tower. 
We  sat  down  on  one  of  the  pleasant 
benches  close  by  Pascal's  statue. 
The  air  was  scented  with  flowers^ 
the  little  children  were  playing 
about  with  their  bonnes,  and  there- 
was  the  fountain's  musical  ripple. 

'Is  your  daughter,'  I  asked,  'a 
tall,  handsome  girl — sings  well — 
has  fair  hair  and  complexion,  but 
dark  eyes—about  nineteen  ?' 

'  It  must  be  she.  It  is  the  yery 
same.    Oh,  sir  I  where  is  she  ?' 

But  I  was  phlegmatically  obliged 
to  say  that  I  had  not  the  least  idea 
of  her  whereabouts. 

They  were  so  downcast  at  thig 
that  I  ventured  to  explain  that  I 
thought  it  possible  we  might  be  put 
on  the  right  track  to  find  her.  Then 
I  soon  succeeded  in  getting  their 
little  story  from  them. 

The  elder  lady  was  the  widow  of 
a  London  merchant,  who,  having 
always  kept  up  a  costly  and  luxurious 
establishment,  had  left  his  family 
only  poorly  off,  owing  to  a  great  de- 
preciation in  the  value  of  his  pro* 
perty.  There  were  several  daughters,, 
and  it  was  necesFsry  that  at  least 
one  or  two  of  them  should  become 
governesses,  which  was  hard  ux)on 
girls  who  were  accustomed  to  a  gay,, 
and  rather  fast  life.  Mrs.  Bums,  an 
Anglo-Parisian  friend  of  Mrs.  Broad- 
hurst's,  had  suggested  to  her  that 
her  daughter  should  enter  a  Do- 
minican convent,  where  a  school  was 
kept,  on  what  are  called  in  England 
'mutual  terms.'  The  young  lady 
was  to  give  lessons  in  English,  and 
receive  some   lessons   in  French. 


TJie  Three  Overheard  Whiq>€r8. 


11 


Boafd  and  lodging  were  to  be  pro- 
vided for  her,  but  no  stipend  was  to 
be  given.  After  a  time  Miss  Clara 
Broadhnrst  grew  exceedingly  dis- 
satisfied with  her  position.  The 
early  hoars  and  the  plain  fare  of 
the  eonvent  did  not  suit  her.  She 
had  a  great  notion  that  she  deserved 
a  stipend.  She  had  also  a  great 
notion  that  she  had  better  go  upon 
the  stage,  or  that  she  might  do  well 
as  a  singer  at  public  ccmcerts.  Al- 
though the  living  at  the  convent 
was  so  plain,  and  the  rules  so  strin- 
gent. Miss  Broadhurst  was  not  called 
upon  in  any  degree  to  be  treated  as 
a  Roman  Catholic  inmate  would  be 
treated;  and  all  her  school  work 
being  finished  in  the  morning,  she 
had  full  range  of  liberty  between 
the  early  dinner  and  the  early  tea. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  doubt  but 
a  great  deal  of  this  time  was  spent 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  It  ap- 
peared that  she  had  made  several 
undesirable  acquaintances  in  Paris, 
in  the  case  of  English  and  French 
ladies  against  whom  Mrs.  Bums 
could  not  actually  allege  anything, 
but  of  whom  she  disapproved  as 
companions  of  the  daughter  of  her 
friend.  Latterly  Miss  Broadhurst 
had  been  dropping  hints  to  her 
mother  that  she  had  an  opening  in 
life  much  more  to  her  taste  than 
teaching  in  a  French  convent.  Then 
her  letters  grew  rarer,  and  then 
they  ceased.  Later  still  she  dis- 
appeared from  the  convent.  She 
hod  gone  out  one  afternoon  as  usual, 
and  had  never  come  back.  It  had 
evidently  been  a  step  studiously 
contemplated,  for  all  her  clothing 
and  effects,  for  some  days  past,  had 
gradually  been  in  course  of  removal. 

[I  may  here  state,  what  subse- 
quently transpired— that  she  had 
obtained  an  engagement  to  sing  at 
the  Salle  d'Artois.  I  was  never 
able  rightly  to  make  out  whether 
she  had  formed  the  acquaintance  of 
Monsieur  Fapillon  previous  to  or 
during  this  musical  engagement, 
but  have  reason  to  suspect  that  the 
former  was  the  case.] 

Mrs.  Broadhurst  had  immediately 
been  telegraphed  for  by  her  friend 
Mr&  Bums  to  come  to  Fans ;  and 
in  a  state  almost  of  distraction  she 
had  been  making  inquiries  every- 


where in  Paris  about  her  daughter^ 
but  had  not  hitherto  met  with  any 
success  in  the  search. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  the 
hurried  story  which  they  told  me, 
and  they  now  looked  impatiently 
towards  me  to  see  what  consolation 
or  guidance  I  could  offer  them.  My 
own  mind  was  in  a  state  of  utter 
incertitude.  I  was  uncertain  even 
on  the  question  of  identification — 
whether  the  girl  I  had  seen  was 
really  the  Clara  Broadhurst  who 
was  missing.  But  here  th^  were 
positive,  and  would  allow  no  ex- 
pression of  doubt.  I  then  told  my 
trembling  and  astonished  listeners 
that,  assuming  the  identity,  I  knew 
that  ti>eir  Clara  was  intimate,  and 
apparently  deeply  in  love  with  a. 
Frenchman;  that  I  had  heard  her 
mention  this  present  Friday  to  him 
in  a  way  that  looked  like  an  assigna- 
tion with  him ;  that  I  know  that  on 
this  very  day  her  engagement  tO' 
sing  in  public  terminated;  and  I 
also  knew  that  on  this  very  day  the 
Frenchman  was  going  down  to  Fon- 
tainbleau.  The  almost  irresistible 
inference  was  that  she  was  going  to 
accompany  him  to  that  place.  1 
also  told  them  that  it  was  my  in- 
tention to  go  to  Fontainbleau  that 
very  day ;  but  I  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  £ay  that  I  was  going 
there  simply  on  account  of  the 
young  lady  unknown,  for  then  they 
might  be  building  still  higher  ex- 
pectations that  might  prove  falla- 
cious. I  discovered  that  if  we  moved 
off  at  once  we  should  be  in  time  for 
as  early  a  train  as  Monsieur  Papillon 
was  at  all  likely  to  take.  We  caught 
our  train,  and  in  about  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  I  and  my  two  sudden 
and  unexpected  companions  arrived 
at  Fontainbleau. 

The  reader  will  probably  recollect 
that  long  straight  road,  with  its 
rows  of  straight  trees,  between  the 
station  and  the  town  of  Fontain- 
bleau. We  looked  eagerly  to  see 
who  might  be  our  companions  in 
the  train ;  but  no  one  whom  1  could 
recognize  alighted  at  the  station. 
When  we  got  into  the  town,  and  had 
alighted  at  an  ugly-looking  hotel,  I 
persuaded  them  to  have  some  re- 
freshment, and  I  endeavoured  to 
calm    Mrs.    Broadhuxst's    intense 


12 


The  Three  Overheard  WhUpers. 


nervotis  excitement.  Then  I  lighted 
A  cigar,  and  strolled  about,  settling 
our  plan  of  operations.  My  first 
object  was  to  discover  where  the 
Maison  Dnpont  might  happen  to 
be.  I  easily  ascertained  that  it  was 
•a  very  respectable  boarding-house, 
kept  by  M.  Dupont,  a  respectable 
•and  responsible  man,  situated  about 
twenty  minutes'  ride  from  the  town, 
•on  the  verge  of  the  forest.  Find- 
dDg  that  some  hours  must  elapse 
before  the  arrival  of  the  next  train, 
I  persuaded  them  to  visit  the  palace 
«iid  grounds;  showed  them  the  spot 
where  the  first  Napoleon  kissed  the 
•eagles,  and  took  his  farewell ;  showed 
them  them  the  pond  where  the  third 
Napoleon  tumbled  topsy-turvy 
•among  the  great  carp ;  pointed  out 
the  Empresses  gondola,  which  I  be- 
lieved was  the  very  same  that  Lord 
Byron  had  used  at  Venice,  and,  in 
fact,  exhausted  all  my  little  store 
of  Napoleonic  reminiscences.  The 
ladies,  however,  were  hardly  in  a 
state  of  mind  that  permitted  them 
to  do  justice  to  my  agreeable  and 
improving  vein  of  anecdote.  I 
thought  it  best,  therefore,  to  dismiss 
all  notions  of  sight- seeing,  and  con- 
fine ourselves  strictly  to  the  imme- 
diate business  of  tbe  day.  Mrs. 
Broadhurst  and  I  were  immediately 
to  proceed  to  the  Maison  Dupont, 
and  Mrs.  Bums  was  to  return  to 
the  station  and  watch  for  the  run- 
aways. It  was  curious  how  the 
impression  that  they  would  arrive 
had  now  become  rooted  in  our 
minds. 

We  drove  leisurely  to  the  locality 
that  had  been  indicated  to  me,  ob- 
taining glimpses  of  flowery  spaces 
and  deep  forest  glades.  When  we 
arrived  at  the  Maison  Dupont,  we 
were  ushered  into  the  pleasant 
presence  of  Madame  Dupont,  and, 
as  I  had  agreed  with  my  companion, 
I  took  charge  of  this  sufficiently 
difficult  and  embarrassing  business. 

I  asked  Madame  Dupont  if  she 
had  any  room  for  any  more  inmates. 

Madame  Dupont  was  very  full 
and  was  expecting  fresh  arrivals. 
Still  there  was  one  chamber  im- 
occupied. 

Mrs.  Broadhurst  at  once  said  that 
she  would  be  glad  to  engage  the 
room  for  herself. 


Might  I'  ask  who  were  the  new 
arrivals  ?  We  were  daily  expecting 
some  friends  of  ours  who  were  going 
to  sketch  in  the  forest 

She  thought  it  was  for  a  gentle- 
man and  his  sister.  The  name  was 
Bertrand.  Her  two  best  bed-rooms 
were  taken  for  them,  by  telegraph. 
They  had  also  wanted  a  private 
dtting-room,  but  she  had  only  the 
use  of  the  public  rooms  to  offer 
them,  but  for  the  day  at  least  they 
would  have  these  rooms  pretty  well 
to  themselves. 

I  will  now  put  down  in  chrono- 
logical order  the  few  remarkable 
events  of  that  afternoon. 

Good  Mrs.  Bums  waited  for 
many  anxious  hours  at  that  un- 
interesting station.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  if  they  came  and 
proceeded  anywhere  else  than  to 
the  Maison  Dnpont  she  should 
follow  them,  and  at  once  commu- 
nicate with  us  by  a  messenger. 
But  if  they  went  to  the  Maison 
Dupont  her  mission  was  at  an  end, 
and  she  was  to  return  to  the  hotel, 
where  we  would  communicate  with 
her. 

The  eight  o'clock  train  from  Paris 
duly  arrived,  and  then,  sure  as  fate, 
Mrs.  Burns  recognised  her  young  ac- 
quaintance, Clara  Broadhurst,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  young  dandified 
Frenchman. 

'  Why,  Clara,'  said  the  good  lady, 
'  what  brings  you  here,  and  how 
d'ye  do?  They  told  me  that  you 
had  retumed  to  England.  Didn  t 
you  like  the  convent?' 

'  Madame,'  said  Clara,  very 
haughtily,  and  speaking  in  French, 
'  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  no  time 
to  speak  to  you  now.  I  may  tell 
you  that  I  am  engaged  to  marry 
this  gentleman,  Monsieur  Bertrand, 
of  Marseilles,  and  have  come  here 
on  a  visit  to  some  of  his  friends.' 

The  gentleman  had  calmly  ig- 
nored the  stout  English  lady,  and 
was  hailing  a  voiture.  Clara  made 
a  curtsey  and  swept  past  her.  Mrs. 
Bams  was  petrified  with  astonish- 
ment. But  she  heard  the  word 
Dupont  in  the  direction. 

When  Monsieur  and  his  interest- 
ing companion  arrived  at  tbe  Maison 
Dupont,  they  were  met  by  the  smil- 
ing landlady,  who  told  them  that 


Parisian  Clubs,  Past  and  Present. 


la 


she  was  so  sorry  that  she  had  no 
private  room  for  them.  There  was 
only  a  gentleman  in  a  salon,  and  she 
nnderstood  that  he  was  going  almost 
directly,  as  soon  as  he  had  done 
some  little  business  for  a  friend. 

There  was  a  gentleman  sitting  at 
the  window,  with  his  hat  in  one 
hand  and  that  day's  '  Galignani'  in 
the  other.  This  individaal  was  the 
esteemed  Paris  correspondent  of 
the  '  Ck>ketown  Daily  Express.' 

As  he  entered  I  rose  from  my 
seat  and  faced  him.  '  Ah,  Monsieur 
Papillon/  I  exclaimed,  'I  am  so 
happy;  what  an  extraordinary  en- 
counter! I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  in  very  agreeable  com- 
pany last  night  on  the  Bouleyards.' 

He  shook  hands  with  me  hur- 
riedly and  gave  a  forced  laugh. 
'  Vbu8  avez  tort.  Monsieur,  I  am  M. 
Bertrand,  of  Marseilles,  much  at 
your  service.  What  do  you  say— 
Papillon?  it  is  one  good  joke.  They 
call  me  that  because  I  am  light- 
hearted.' 

'  Just  as  you  like/  I  answered ; 
'  it  is  of  no  importance,  but  I  don't 
think  our  mutual  friend,  the  Hon. 
Mr.  B.,  of  the  English  Embassy, 
would  take  such  a  liberty  with 
either  of  us  as  to  make  an  intro- 
duction under  fiilse  colours.' 

I  noticed  that  he  bit  his  lips  and 
appeared  greatly  disgusted.  His 
companion  turned  first  towards 
him  and  then  towards  me  her  large 
inquiring  eyes. 

*  Ah,  B.,  he  is  what  you  do  call 
one  funny  dog.' 

'And  so  are  you.  Monsieur  Pa- 
pillon,' I  answered.  '  But  how  is 
madame,  your  wife— and  the  charm- 
ing little  infant  in  Calyados?' 

He  changed  colour  very  much, 
and  muttered  a  raille  tonnerres.  Then 


he  seized  his  companion's  resisting 
hand,  and  said,  smilingly,  'I'oila 
madame,' 

'  No,  no,  no,'  I  said,  laughingly. 
'  That  is  not  Madame  Papillon.  Un- 
less I  am  greatly  mistaken,  that  la 
Miss  Clara  BroadhurstJ 

She  started  up,  almost  as  if  shot 
'  Oh,  sir  I  and  do  you  know  me  ? 
And  is  not  this  gentleman  M.  Ber- 
trand,  of  Marseilles?' 

'  My  child,'  I  answered,  '  his 
name  is  Papillon.  He  is  a  member 
of  the 'Jockey  Club  at  Paris.  His 
place  is  in  the  north  of  France, 
where  he  has  left  his  wife.' 

She  cast  on  him  a  look  of  th& 
most  indignant  reproach.  Then 
she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  and 
began  to  moan.  '  Oh,  what  shall  I 
do?  What  shall  I  do?  My  mother, 
my  poor  mother  I  Oh,  I  wish  I  had 
never  come  to  Paris !  Oh,  my  mother, 
where  are  you?' 

'  I  am  here,  my  child,'  said  Mrs. 
Broadhurst,  and  she  calmly  glided 
from  the  jtetite  salwi  adjoining,  and 
folded  her  weeping  daughter  in  her 
arms. 

When  I  went  up  to  Paris  a  few 
hours  later  by  the  night  mail, 
among  the  gentlemen  in  the  smok- 
ing compartment  I  recognised,  with 
much  satisfaction,  my  young  friend, 
M.  Papillon.  He  was  veiy  affable 
and  ofiered  me  a  light 

Miss  Clara  Broadhurst  afterwards 
sang  in  a  London  concert-room. 
After  a  very  short  term  of  profes- 
sional life,  however,  she  married  a 
very  worthy  man.  I  wonder,  how- 
ever, whether  he— or  indeed  either 
of  them  —  altogether  knew  about 
the  curious  incident  of  the  Three 
Overheard  Whis'pers, 


PAKISIAN  CLUBS,  PAST  AND  PRESENT. 


CLUBS  of  some  sort  or  other  have 
existed  all  the  world  over,  from 
the  earliest  times:  for,  as  Garlyle 
says,  fellowship  '  is  sweet  and  indis- 
pensable to  man.'  For  all  sorts  of 
objects  have  clubs,  historical  and 
now  existing,  been  founded.  The 
modern  Parisian  club,  however,  is  a 


very  difierent  affair  from  the  Parisian 
clubs  of  other  days,  and  from  those 
clubs  brought  to  perfection— the 
clubs  of  London.  The  word '  clubs,' 
indeed— borrowed  by  the  French 
from  the  English— had  a  dark  signi- 
ficance in  the  days  of  revolutionary 
Paris.    In  the  fiery   days  of  '9  a 


14 


Parisian  Clubs,  Past  and  Present 


National  Assemblies  vrere  Dot  quick 
enough  to  feci  and  express  popular 
opinion,  or  to  readily  feel  the  pulses 
of  the  popular  enthusiasm ;  even  the 
press,  with  hot-blooded  OamilJe 
Desmoulins  aiding,  though  fierce, 
was  indistinct.  The  real  political 
life  of  '92  in  Paris  was  centred  in 
the  clubs ;  the  whole  public  belonged 
to  one  another;  clubs  grew  like 
fabled  dragons'  teeth,  each  section 
of  revolutionized  Paris  rejoicing  in 
more  than  one.  Some  inspired 
patriots,  coming  up  to  the  metro- 
polis from  remote  but  hotly  sans- 
cullotic  Brittany,  invented  the  poli- 
tical revolutionary  club.  They  first 
constituted  themselves  a  committee 
*  of  action ;'  then  they  founded,  from 
that,  the  'Breton  Club:'  this  soon 
became  more  than  Breton,  was  joined 
l>y  patriot  deputies  from  all  parts, 
was  re-christened,  first, '  French  Bo- 
volution  Club/  then  '  Club  of  tho 
Friends  of  the  Constitution.'  Finally, 
these  same  gregarious  Breton  depu- 
ties, having  rented  the  old  despoiled 
convent  of  the  Jacobin  monks  in 
Rue  St.  Honor6— now,  unhappily, 
a  thing  of  memory  only^  for  the  old 
edifice  has  gone  long  ago — and 
taking  their  name  from  their  place 
of  meeting,  became  the  '  Club  of  the 
Jacobins '  —  is  it  not  world  re- 
nowned ?  '  Sea-green '  Bobespierre 
gave  cold  counsel  from  its  tribone ; 
there  sparkled  fiashing  Desmoulins, 
and  roared,  lionlike,  Danton,  and 
croaked  ill-fibvoured  and  squalid 
Marat,  Friend  of  the  People.  And 
here,  in  the  Club  of  tho  Jacobins, 
was  bom  the  bloody  revolution 
which  followed  on  the  heels  of  the 
good-natured  revolution.  Others 
followed  the  example — there  sprang 
up  '  Constitutionar  clubs  for  the 
party  of  Mirabeau, '  Boyalist'  clubs 
of  blind  and  chivalrous  noblesse, 
'  Feuillans'  Club/  of  mild  Girondists, 
and  '  Club  of  the  Cordeliers/  out- 
Heroding  in  its  democratic  fury  the 
Jacobin  Herod  itself;  then  there 
was  the  refined,  philosophic,  mode- 
rate, doomed  '  Girondist,'  with  the 
fine  inspired  face  of  Madame  Boland 
beaming  over  the  table.  Soon  the 
Club  of  the  Jacobins  becomes,  as 
Louis  XIY.  was,  the  State :  strange 
heretical  successor  to  the  magnifi- 
cent monarch!  And  now  it  expands 


and  sits  high  on  the  'Mountain/ and 
from  aloft  frowns  down  ujxm  and 
rules  the  Convention. 

With  the  Bevolution,  however,  all 
these,  good  and  bad,  vanished.  In 
the  years  of  tho  Consulaite  and  the 
Empire,  other  clubs  sprang  into  ex- 
istence— military  clulis,  with  mar- 
shals of  Franco  as  presidents ;  lite- 
rary clnbs,  which  listened  intent 
upon  the  disoour^iogsof  Madame  de 
Stacl;  political  clubs  had,  for  the 
most  part,  ceased  to  be.  But  poli- 
tical clubs  grew  up  again — ^but  in 
tho  dark— towards  the  close  of  tlie 
Restoration  epoch,  when  Charles  X. 
became  stubborn.  Bourbon-like,  and 
Polignao  refused  to  yield;  they 
fought  their  way  into  light  in  iS^o, 
and  drove  tho  royal  '  stoopid '  out 
of  France.  In  the  time  of  Louis 
Philippe,  the  patriarch  and  '  father 
of  his  people/  an  old-fashioned  stylo 
of  clubs  resuscitated,  budded,  and 
developed ;  the  reign  of  light,  ght- 
tcring  French  pleasure  began  once 
more;  the  clubs  were  now  social, 
pleasure-loving,  game-playing,  ab- 
sinthe-drinking, and  concert-giving ; 
and  these  are  the  features  of  the 
modem  Parisian  club,  as  contrasted 
with  those  of  history. 

If  there  be  now  any  distinctly 
political  clubs  existing  in  Paris,  they 
are  not  publicly  known.  If  known, 
such  would  not  be  allowed  by  Go- 
vernment, especially  if  hostile  to 
Government;  and  there  would 
scarcely  be  a  raison  d'etre  for  clubs 
favourable  to  Government  Then, 
the  French  have  really  very  little  to 
complain  of  in  Napoleon  III. ;  there 
is  certainly  no  palpably  grievous 
tyranny;  there  is  no  Jong  despairing 
waU  for '  bread/  as  there  was  in  the 
days  of  the  first  Revolution ;  people 
generally  have  a  very  fair  share  of 
justice  done  them  la  the  legislature 
and  the  courts  of  justice ;  taxes  are 
lighter  than  in  many  continental 
countries;  the  press  talks  with  a 
plainness  which  surprises  one  who 
has  been  told  of  the  repressive  ten- 
dencies of  the  official  censorship ;  the 
country  is  at  peace,  is  materially 
prosperous,  and  physically  robust ; 
the  opposition  journals  have  up-hill 
work  in  finding  fault  with  the  Em- 
pire ;  and  now  the  Empire  appeals 
confidently  and  without  fear  to  the 


Parisian  Ohhiy  Faat  and  Present, 


15 


people,  asking— without  a  doabt  as 
to  the  result— that  they  will  send  up 
a  new  Legislature  as  faithful  to  the 
dynasty  as  the  old  And  when  there 
is  no  really  deep  national  grievance, 
there  is  no  raismi  d'etre  for  clubs  of 
the  politi<»d-fiery  stamp  of  the  Jaco- 
bins and  Cordeliers — ^no  food  for 
them  to  feed  and  prosper  on. 

There  may  yet  exist,  for  all  the 
outer  world  knows,  shrewd  night- 
shrouded  organizations,  having  a 
kinship  with  the  political  clubs  of 
history ;  but  certain  it  is  that  such, 
if  any  there  be,  have  not  a  very  ex- 
tensive membership,  nor  great  popu- 
lar influence.  The  partisans  of  Count 
Quixote  Chambord  may  meet  in 
damask  drawing-rooms  and  conspire 
to  restore  the  blue  Bourbon  blood, 
in  the  crumbling  ch&teanz  some- 
wh^e  out  in  the  provinces;  Count 
de  Paris  may  just  possibly  have 
emissaries  in  Paris,  concocting 
schemes  with  messieurs  the  consti- 
tutional monarohists;  Favre  and 
Simon  may  make  midnight  speeches, 
and  have  a  sort  of  freemasonry 
among  the  republicans,  with  a  wire 
reaching  to  volcanic  St  Antoine — 
but  none  of  these  are  probable ;  and 
if  they  do  exist,  their  hope  must 
indeed  be  feeble  of  overturning  a 
regime  which  is  ever  watchful,  is 
moderate  from  policy,  and  is  con- 
trolled by  so  acute  a  mind  aa  that  of 
its  present  head. 

The  social  clubs  which  have  been 
alluded  to  are,  however,  in  the  full 
blaze  of  crowded  and  glittering 
prosperity.  They  are  certainly  bril- 
mnlC  certainly  fascinating;  one  can 
well  see  that  the  attractions  which 
they  offer  are  irresistible  to  the 
pleasure-loving  French  bachelor,  or 
to  the  Benedict  to  whom  home,  alas! 
offers  no  allurements. 

It  is  a  place  to  meet  and  chat  in ; 
to  gossip  in,  after  male  fashion — ^a 
gossip  very  different  from  that  of 
women,  by  the  way,  neither  so  sense- 
less nor  so  harmless — to  read  the 
papers  in,  where  to  laugh  over  the 
cartoons  of  the  '  Journal  Amusant ' 
and  the  dry  piquancy  of  *  Charivari/ 
the  last  critique,  on  Nilsson  or  Patti 
in  'Figaro;'  where  to  indulge  in 
the  post-prandian  cafS-au-oognac  or 
absinthe,  and  the  other  rank  poisons 
in  which  the  Parisian  delights,  de- 


spite the  subsequent  dyspepsia; 
where  there  are  billiard  tables  and 
bagatelle  for  all,  and  where,  above 
all,  the  genius  of  play  reigns  para- 
mount. 

Let  us  enter  one — the  refined  and 
classical  '  Society  des  Beaux  Arts :' 
it  has  a  high-sounding  sesthetic 
name  enough,  but  is  in  reality 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  club  of 
'men  of  the  world.'  As  you  pass  in 
you  observe  the  self-styled  lovers  of 
'the  arts'  going  and  coming,  look- 
ing, however,  as  little  like  artists  or 
connoisseurs  of  art  as  possible. 
Mostly  they  are  flashy -looking, 
heavy  -  whiskered,  shining -haired, 
well-dressed  *  swells,'  with  a  gam- 
bling devil-may-care  air  about  them ; 
some  substantial  old  gentlemen  in 
gold  spectacles  and  wigs;  some 
greenish  youths  who  have  prema- 
turely donned  an  air  imitative  of 
fashionable  manhood.  The  club  is 
dazzlingly  lighted  without  and 
within.  It  has  pillars  at  the  en- 
trance, Parthenon-like ;  rather  over- 
graceful  plaster  statues  of  the  Muses 
stand  in  the  vestibule,  intended  for 
ornament— but  somehow  provoca- 
tive of  mirth.  Within  the  wide, 
Mgli  door  is  a  spacious  hall,  with 
mosaic  floor,  and  resplendent  from 
many  gas  globes ;  here  and  there  a 
statue,  fresco,  bas-relief;  the  white 
X>anellings  all  a-gilt,  an  ornamenta- 
tion less  tasteful  than  obtrusive. 
Directly  before  you  is  a  broad, 
richly-carpeted  oaken  staircase  lead- 
ing to  a  platform,  where  two  women 
in  fiiultlessly  stiff  white  caps  receive 
the  tickets  of  members  or  recognise 
them  as  they  enter,  and  take  chaise 
of  the  superfluities— the  canes,  hats, 
and  umbrellas.  The  staircase  merges 
into  two,  ascending  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left,  and  these  conduct  to  the 
various  saloons  of  the  club. 

The  rooms  are  hardly  less  bril- 
liant, the  furniture  hardly  less 
sumptuous,  than  the  royal  apart- 
ments of  the  Tuileries ;  light  every- 
where blazes,  dazzling;  every 
imaginable  luxury  is  provided — 
those  numerous  Utile  things  which 
together  furnish  the  indolent  with 
contentment.  Great  roaring  flres 
mount  up  in  the  spacious  fireplaces 
— too  much  heat,  making  the  in- 
mates drowsy,  inviting  to  a  doze  on 


16 


Pcaisian  Clubs,  Past  and  Present. 


the  seighbouring  laxurioos  sofas. 
In  some  rooms  are  books,  maga- 
zines, and  files  of  newsnapers ;  in 
others  billiard  tables  ana  bagatelle 
boards ;  in  others  caf6  and  restatmmt 
establishments;  in  nearly  all  card- 
tables,  the  cards  constantly  shnfiBing 
and  patting,  flanked  by  files  of  golden 
napoleons. 

The  most  beaatifal  of  these  apart- 
ments, howeyer,  is  the  concert  hall, 
which,  elaborately  frescoed  on  domo 
and  wall,  has  a  pretty  covered  gal- 
lery, supported  by  graceful  pillars, 
and  cosy  seats  disposed  in  semi- 
circles and  rising  behind  each  other. 
A  tasteful  stage  occupies  the  front, 
embellished  with  a  grand  piano. 
Here,  twice  a  month,  a  classical 
concert  is  given  by  musicians  of 
jiote ;  to  this  the  club  members  are 
admitted  free,  and  each  is  entitled 
to  two  additional  tickets  for  his  lady 
friends.  At  the  concerts,  messieurs 
of  the  club  occupy  the  gallery,  the 
ladies  the  'parterre.'  You  observe 
one  thing  at  the  concerts  which 
hardly  confirms  your  idea  of  the 
great  gallantry  of  'our  neighbour 
the  Gaul.*  The  club  members  in 
the  gallery,  almost  every  one,  are 
provided  with  opera-glasses ;  and  a 
battery  of  these  goggle^yed  instru- 
ments is  levelled  throughout  the 
evening  at  the  pretty  young  mesde- 
moifelles  below.  You  observe  that 
this  frightfully  impudent  and  bare- 
faced staring  does  not  cease  as  a 
habit  with  age ;  for  yonder  is  a  dan- 
dified old  fellow,  who,  you  are  very 
certain,  must  be  an  octogenarian, 
constantly  ogling  through  a  much 
bejewelled  lorgnette  the  youngest 
and  prettiest  laidies  in  the  hall,  and 
evidently  enjoying  the  pastime— for 
he  is  busy  pointing  out  his  especial 
beauties  to  a  companion  a  quarter 
of  his  own  age.  These  club  con- 
certs are,  notwithstanding,  popular, 
and  are  always  crowded;  the  ex- 
pense is  paid  from  the  club  trea- 


sury. The  elite  of  Paris  are  often 
present,  and  the  fashion  is  to  dress 
as  much  as  if  it  were  a  State  repre- 
sentation at  the  Opera. 

But  the  great  attraction  of  the 
modem  Parisian  club  is  unques- 
tionably the  gaming,  which  is  open, 
and  woll-m'gh  an  universal  habit 
The  most  frequent  hahituSs  of  the 
club  are  men,  either  of  dissipated 
tastes  with  plenty  of  money,  which 
they  had  ratber  spend  over  the  card- 
table  than  in  any  other  way;  or  else 
men  of  desperate  fortunes,  who 
would,  if  possible,  retrieve  them;  or, 
too  often,  silly  young  fellows  who 
can  discover  no  higher  ambition 
than  to  be  the  boon  companions  of 
'swells,'  and  to  become  'swells' 
themselves.  There  is  gambling  at 
the  billiard-tables,  but  the  great 
attraction  is  the  card-table.  You 
not  seldom  see  white-headed,  re- 
spectable-looking old  'gentlemen' 
standing  over  uie  card-table  en- 
couraging and  urging  on  mere 
beardless  boys,  applauding  their 
successful  ventures,  and  laughing 
gaUy  at  their  feverish  suspense. 
The  victim  of  the  mariage  de  oanve- 
nance  finds  here  tiie  pleasure  which 
home  denies  to  him.  Men  go  to  the 
gaming-table  and  ruin  themselves, 
because,  instead  of  their  choosing 
their  own  wives,  their  fiBtthers  did  it 
for  them.  The  Parisian  club,  far 
less  innocent  and  healthy  than  those 
of  Pall  Mall,  is  one  only  of  the 
noxious  products  of  that  bad  rule 
of  French  society  which  forbids  the 
free  association  of  young  men  and 
women  of  equal  rank ;  hence  it  is 
that  the  former  are  driven  to  spend 
their  evenings  at  the  club  card- 
tables,  or  lounging  in  the  caf^s,  or 
worse,  if  anything,  in  the  society  of 
women  at  meeting  whom  in  the 
street  their  sisters  would  blush  with 
iHstinctive  horror  and  womanly  dis- 
gust 

G.  M.  T. 


>iiSi!^^5^ 


17 


SOCIAL  SUPERSTITIONS. 


CON  vre  shall  have  no  social 
snperstitioiis,  I  suppose.  They 
are  destined,  no  doubt,  to  disap- 
pear with  political  superstitions 
and  religions  superstitions  —  or 
what  people  axe  jpleased  to  con- 
sider as  such  —  in  the  natural 
course  of  the  abolition  of  most 
things.  How  many  have  gone  in 
our  own  time ! — or  in  a  time  within 
the  experience  of  men  and  women 
still  among  us,  and  fiBmiliar  at  least 
in  a  reflected  light 

The  superstitions  to  which  I 
refer,  are  not  yery  important  per- 
haps, but  they  mark  changes  in 
manners,  and  changes  in  manners 
mark  changes  in  a  great  many 
other  things.  A  great  number 
have  gone,  as  I  have  said.  The 
superstitious  obserrance  of  the 
custom  of  getting  drunk  after 
dinner,  for  instance,  is  among 
the  disappearances.  A  great  many 
people  still  get  drunk,  it  must  be 
confessed;  but  they  usually  pay 
the  homage  which  intoxication 
owes  to  sobriety,  and  dei^y  or  con- 
ceal the  fact  There  used  to  be  a  superstition  among  a  certain  class  of  fine 
gentlemen  that  it  was  '  bad  form ' — or  whatever  was  the  equivalent  phrase 
of  the  period— to  be  aHe  to  do  anything  for  one*s-self.  and  that  a  state  of 
utter  apathy  and  indifference  to  things  in  general  was  the  surest  mark 
of  good  breeding.  There  may  be  such  men  about  now,  but  they  are  very 
carefully  cut,  I  should  think ;  and  a  negative  condition  of  mind  and  body 
would  certainly  not  in  these  days  be  considered  a  sign  of  Jxm  tan.  There 
was  a  superstition  once  in  favour  of  snuff-taking.  Long  since  the  days 
when  a  snuff-box  was  as  necessary  an  appendage  to  a  gentleman  as  his 
shoe  .buckles,  the  habit  of  putting  it  to  use  was  still  general,  and  it  has 
disappeared  only  in  the  present  generation.  During  the  rule  of  snuff, 
smobng  was  the  exception ;  and  i£ough  the  latter  had  many  votaries,  the 
*  vice '  was  a  secret  one— to  be  indulged  only  in  out-of-the-way  places.  A 
stable  or  a  harness  room  was  thought  quite  good  enough,  and  the  tap- room 
at  a  low  tavern  most  appropriate.    When  rooms  were  set  apart  for  the 

Surpose  at  clubs  they  were  always  the  worst  in  the  house ;  and  up  to  so 
kte  a  period  as  to  be  called  the  other  day  there  was  no  smoking-room  at 
one  of  the  leading  clubs  in  London.  Now,  not  only  are  smokers  in  clubs 
luxuriously  provided,  but  every  house  of  sufficient  size  and  pretensions— 
in  the  country  at  any  rate — ^has  an  apartment  available  for  tne  weed ;  and 
in  connexion  with  billiards  ladies  endure  it  with  a  charming  docility — 
developed  in  some  cases,  so  scandal  declares,  into  the  most  practical  ex- 
pression of  tolerance.  In  the  old  times  only  tiie  most  hardened  offenders 
would  venture  to  smoke  in  the  streets  or  public  places.  I  need  scarcely 
«ay  how  this  superstition  has  been  disposed  of  in  these  days,  when  Boyal 
Princes  lead  the  way,  and  a  Boyal  Duke  may  be  seen  on  most  mornings  on 
Constitution  Hill  in  company  with  an  enormous  regalia. 
There  was  a  superstition  prevalent  for  many  years  that  a  gentleman 
VOL.  XVI.— MO.  xci.  0 


18 


Social  Suj^erstitions. 


conld  not  be  properly  coBtnmed 
unless  half  strangled  in  an  enormons 
stock.  This  machine  was  Tronder- 
fully  and  fearfully  made,  with  a 
slight  pretence  of  elasticity,  but  in- 
tended evidently  to  keep  the  head 
up,  and  promote  an  appearance  of 
dignified  apoplexy  in  the  wearer — 
with  the  occasional  effect  of  a  diver- 
gence from  appearance  into  reality. 
The  custom  originated  through  the 
'  most  finished  gentleman  in  Eorope ' 
not  being  proud  of  his  neck ;  ana  it 
became  so  rigorous  as  to  ruin  any 
man  who  refused  to  follow  it.  There 
is  only  one  known  instance  of  such 
hardihood,  however,  and  that  is  in 
the  case  of  Lord  Byron.  It  is 
generally  supposed  that  society  set 
its  face  against  the  poet  because  he 
was  supposed  to  be  an  immoral 
man,  to  ill-treat  his  wife,  and  exhibit 
a  vicious  tendency  in  his  writings. 
I  believe  nothing  of  the  kind.  Society 
at  the  time  made  pets  of  men  who 
were  far  worse  than  Byron  was  even 
supposed  to  be,  who  got  on  no 
better  with  their  wives,  and  who 
set  quite  as  vicious  an  example  in 
their  lives  as  Byron  was  alleged  to 
set  in  his  writings.  Society  cut 
Byron  because  he  turned  down  his 
collar,  and  that  is  the  whole  fact  of 
the  matter.  Had  he  worn  a  stock 
he  would  have  been  one  of  them- 
selves, and  they  would  have  forgiven 
him  a.s  they  did  other  people. 

Stocks  are  seldom  seen  noWj 
except  in  the  army,  where,  in  a 
certain  but  not  sufficiently  modified 
degree,  they  are  still  the  rule;  at 
the  discretion,  however,  of  command- 
ing officers,  who  may  allow  them  to 
be  dispensed  with  if  they  think  the 
relaxation  necessary  or  desii-able. 
Nobody,  in  fact,  wears  a  stock  in 
these  days  unless  ho  is  obliged  to  do 
so,  except  a  few  fogies  who  cling 
to  the  superstition  as  a  link  to 
life. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  my  uncle?' 
asked  a  man  not  long  since  of  his 
friend,  with  whom  he  was  walking 
in  Pall  Mall.  They  bad  just  met 
the  gentleman  in  question. 

'Think  of  him!*  was  the  con- 
temptuous reply ;  '  why  he  wears  a 
stock  and  buckles  it  behind—that's 
what  I  think  of  him.' 

You  see  by  this  little  incident  the 


kind  of  feeling  that  stocks  excite  in- 
the  present  day. 

If  there  are  superstitions  among 
men  there  are  superstitions  among 
women,  you  may  be  sure,  and  among 
the  latter  as  among  the  former  there 
have  been  a  great  many  that  are  now 
exploded.  As  regards  dress  and 
deportment  fhexe  was  one  connected 
with  the  ideal  of  a  lady  which  seems 
to  have  no  believers  in  these  times. 
A  lady  was  supposed  to  be  arrayed 
in  the  plainest  manner  —  to  wear 
robes  of  the  sokiemi  eolours  and  the 
simplest  cut.  Aogrbody  who  devi- 
ated from  the  mb  wm  supposed  not 
to  be  a  lady ;  and  ilia  Rraich,  who 
set  the  fashions  that  ■■  they  do 
now,  w«re  far  in  advance  of  fhe 
Englwh  in  this  respect.  That  tii» 
supentikion  no  longer  prevails  Bced 
scaroriy  be  pointed  out.  Tbe  cfaaqge 
in  tbe  present  diractios  liaa  been 
aceonpaiued  too  by  some  iaodeBtal 
MUfMi'iaiHajai  which  have  also  cone' 
to  an  end— or  vei7  nearly  aoc  Out 
^vaa  ttat  ladicB  in  order  to  attam 
clegaaes  in  skirta  mnak  be  eacased 
in  a  aleei  eage,  abaoidty— eonsider- 
iog  the  dcnvation  of  fhe  wovd — 
called  a  crinoline.  Anollier  was 
founded  upon  the  idea  that  a  lady 
could  not  appear  out  of  doors  with- 
out wearing  upon  her  head  a  prepos- 
terous contrivance,  which,  had  it 
been  discovered  in  the  ruins  of  Pom- 
peii, or  in  some  such  place,  without 
any  indication  of  tbe  use  to  which  it 
was  applied,  would  have  be^  a 
mystery  to  succeeding  ages,  and 
remained  perhaps  a  puzzle  to  anti- 
quarians up  to  the  present  time. 
The  thing  I  mean  was  called  a 
bonnet. 

What  a  monstrosity  it  was !  It 
stood  alone  in  creation.  Nature 
never  produced  anything  like  it  in 
her  wildest  and  most  colonial  moods. 
Art  could  never  have  conceived  such 
an  object.  For  the  bonnet  was  like 
oar  old  friepd  Topsy,  according  to 
that  young  person's  idea  of  her 
origin.  It  was  never  bom  of  tbe 
fancy  of  any  one  man  or  woman — 
'  I  guess  it  growed.'  You  could  not 
indeed  resemble  it  to  anything  else. 
It  was  not  like  a  coalscuttle,  to 
which  some  of  its  varieties  have 
been  flatteringly  compared,  for  it 
would  not  stand  on  its  end^  if  indeed 


Social  Sup&rsiUians. 


19 


it  bad  an  end  to  stand  on ;  and  for 
similar  reasons  among  others  it  conld 
not  be  supposed  to  be  intended  for 
a  coffeepot^  a  breadbasket,  a  card- 
tray,  a  toast-rack,  a  mousetrap,  or  a 
warming-pan.  It  was  certainly  not 
like  a  hat ;  for  though  it  contained 
a  place  where  you  could  put  part  of 
a  head,  there  was  nothing  to  indicate 
— ^in  the  absence  of  previous  infor- 
mation— that  such  an  uncomfortable 
receptacle  was  meant  for  such  a  use. 
The  coincidence  was  altogether  in- 
sufficient You  may  put  your  head 
into  a  bag  or  a  portmanteau,  but 
nobody  would  guess  those  useful 
articles  to  be  head-dresses  on  that 
account.  The  bonnet,  in  its  ultra 
days  at  any  rate,  was  as  shapeless  a 
monster  as  the  Fieuvre,  first  described 
by  Victor  Hugo,  and  since  made 
familiar  to  us  in  collections  of  aqua- 
ria; with  bows  and  flowers  for 
'feelers,'  turning  up  in  arbitrary 
and  unexpected  places.  Had  we — 
innocent  of  it  ourselves— found  it  in 
use  among  the  Cherokee  Indians,  we 
should  have  fancied  it  connected 
with  some  religious  rite,  since  it 
would  be  difficult  to  suppose  that 
anybody  would  voluntarily  wear 
such  a  thing  for  its  own  sake.  That 
it  is  an  exploded  superstition  among 
civilized  nations  is  a  fact  for  which 
everybody  blessed  with  eyesight 
ought  to  be  grateful.  The  present 
substitute  is  called  by  the  same 
name;  but  nobody,  seeing  the  two 
things  together,  would  guess  that 
they  were  put  to  the  same  use.  The 
bonnet  of  the  period  is  a  charming 
little  decorative  arrangement,  which 
may  be  quite  useless  as  far  as  shelter 
is  concerned,  but  is  scarcely  more  so 
than  its  predecessor,  which  was  in- 
effectual against  sun  or  rain,  and 
had  not  the  excuse  of  being  orna- 
mental instead. 

Another  superstition  of  the  past 
was  the  corset.  I  am  not  quite  sure 
that  I  shall  be  allowed  to  allude  to 
such  a  subject,  but  must  take  my 
chance.  I  will  be  content,  however, 
to  observe  that  the  garment — it  can 
scarcely  be  called  a  garment  though ; 
what  am  I  to  call  it?— the  article? 
— the  machine  ?  The  machine  will 
do.  It  was  a  point  of  faith  that  this 
machine  was  indispensable  to  the 
female  kind,  or  at  any  rate  that  it 


ought  to  be,  and  it  was  worn  when 
not  wanted  as  a  distinction  of  the 
sex.  One  need  not  be  the  oldest  in- 
habitant of  any  place  to  remember 
these  curious  contrivances  of  which 
wood  or  steel,  and  whalebone  inevi- 
tably, formed  such  important 
features.  Such  things  may  exist  in 
the  present  day;  but  they  could 
never  have  been  necessities ;  for  the 
interesting  wearers  of  the  modified 
mysteries  now  in  use  under  the  same 
name  do  not  seem  to  suffer  from  the 
absence  of  their  predecessors.  On 
the  contrary,  they  evidently  flourish 
the  more  for  the  change,  look  a 
great  deal  better,  and  must  feel  a 
great  deal  better  if  they  can  feel  at 
all. 

Among  social  observances  which 
may  be  classed  among  exploded 
superstitions,  I  may  include  the  cir- 
culation of  wedding  cards  and 
wedding  cake  among  the  friends  of 
married  couples.  The  cake  went 
first,  and  the  cards  are  fast  fallowing. 
I  am  not  quite  sure  that  the  omis- 
sion in  either  case  is  an  advantage. 
People  always  liked  getting  the 
cake,  though  it  is  a  horrible  thing 
to  eat,  and  the  cards  certainly 
answered  their  intended  purpose — 
that  of  marking  the  feeling  towards 
oHacquaintances  under  new  condi- 
tions, and  influencing  them  in  pay- 
ing congratulatory  visits.  Now, 
under  the  new  arrangement,  half  the 
acquaintances  of  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom are  uncertain  whether  to  call 
ornot;  and  as  they  are  very  apt  to  give 
themselves  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
which  gives  the  least  trouble,  they 
frequently  remain  upon  anomalous 
terms  with  the  happy  pair  for  an  in- 
definite period — determined  in  the 
end  perhaps  by  an  accident. 

The  superstition  which  dictates 
the  use  of  cards  in  general  inter- 
course is  not  likely  to  die  out.  So- 
ciety cannot  get  on  without  them. 
But  calling  —  where  you  actually 
want  to  see  the  people— has  been 
relieved  of  half  its  horrors  by  the 
practice  of  appointing  certain  days 
for  being  at  home,  and  adding  the 
attraction  of  tea,  which,  whether 
visitors  want  that  refreshment  or 
not,  at  least  gives  them  something 
to  do.  A  great  many  people  would 
I»efer  that  these  rites  should  be 
0  a 


20 


Social  Supenliiioni, 


performed  after  dioner  instead  of 
before,  and  it  would  be  well  to  allow 
them  the  altematiye.  I  dare  say  we 
shall  come  to  this  some  day.  Mean- 
while many  take  kindly  to  what  has 
been  called  the  social  treadmill, 
and  grind  away  for  the  fan  of  the 
thing.  It  is  hard  perhaps  to  have 
to  drop  additional  cards  after  hav- 
ing dmed  at  a  house,  and  snch 
visitcs  de  digestion  are  usually  paid 
with  the  kind  of  gratitude  known 
as  a  lively  sense  of  benefits  to 
come. 

Among  existing  superstitions  that 
which  necessitates  introdnctions  at 
balls  in  prirate  houses  has  a  great 
many  heterodox  enemies.  They  are 
mere  matters  of  form,  since  the 
persons  introduced  are  frequently 
no  wiser  as  to  one  another's  per- 
sonality than  they  were  before ;  and 
the  observance  has  the  effect  of 
curbing  individual  ardour.  There 
is  no  harm  in  them  ;  they  are  often 
an  assistance ;  but  they  should  not 
be  held  necessary,  and  in  a  happier 
state  of  existence  I  dare  say  they 
will  be  dispensed  with. 

Among  exploded  superstitions 
upon  such  occasions  may  be  reck- 
oned speeches  afttr  supper.  Where 
there  is  no  regular  supper  to  make 
speeches  after  the  evil  naturally 
cures  itself;  but  even  where  there 
is,  the  bore  in  question  is  never  met 
with  except  in  offensively  old-fash- 
ioned society.  So  much  the  better, 
say  all  sensible  people.  Speeches 
after  dinner,  when  the  dinner  has  a 
business  object,  of  course  can't  be 
helped,  and  come  under  a  different 
category. 

Apropos  to  dinners  I  mav  mention 
a  very  old  superstition  which  gave 
the  palm  to  English  dinners  over 
all  other  dinners,  in  the  world. 
'  Foreign  kickshaws,' compared  with 
them,  were  held  in  contempt  as  un- 
wholesome abominations.  And  an 
English  dinner,  when  well  cooked,  is 
no  doubt  a  very  fine  thing,  and 
better  for  people  leading  an  active 
life  than,  say,  a  French  one,  as  a 
continuous  arran^ment.  But  it  is 
the  old  story  still  —  our  dinners 
come  from  a  sacred,  our  cooks  from 
a  profane  source.  To  cook  an  Eng- 
lish dinner  well  a  person  ought  to 
be  capable  of  cooking  a  French  one. 


The  principles  are  the  same,  and  the 
ornate  variations,  in  the  latter  case, 
are  mere  matters  of  special  attain- 
ment, easily  acquired  from  prescribed 
formulae.  But  the  popular  deluskm 
with  the  common  run  of  oooks  is, 
that  an  English  dinner,  in  order  to 
have  '  no  nonsense  about  it,*  should 
be  essentially  solid,  and  leave  di- 
gestibility an  open  questioD.  Any 
suggestion  of  an  advance  upon 
these  conditions  is  met  by  the  re- 
sponse that  Mary  Jane  does  not  pro- 
fess to  understand  foreign  cookery ; 
and  an  intimation,  if  she  is  disposed 
to  be  candid,  that  she  considers 
'  plain  English '  entitled  to  the  pre- 
ference in  every  respect  She  can 
never  be  made  to  understand  that 
food  prepared  in  the  English  &shion 
is  not  necessarily  crude,  comfort- 
less, and  injurious.  Her  main  idea 
is  that  everything  English  ought  to 
be  substantial,  that  is  to  say,  heavy ; 
and  in  pursuance  of  this  I  have 
known  her  send  up  such  a  thing 
as  suet  pudding  with  partioulur 
joints.  The  accompaniment  is  well 
known  in  schools,  where  it  is  ac- 
cepted as  part  of  the  discipline  of 
the  establishment— but  surely  no- 
body ever  ate  suet  pudding  as  a 
free  agent!  This  is  perhaps  an 
aggravated  instance  of  infiEituation, 
but  it  is  quite  within  the  compass 
of  common  '  plain  cooks,'  who  mi- 
nister to  the  middle  classes  of  so- 
ciety. How  the  poor  fare,  who  are 
their  own  cooks,  is  a  sad  considera- 
tion. That  they  eat  at  all  is  a 
marvel;  and  it  is  a  still  greater 
marvel,  considering  the  savage  cha- 
racter of  their  meals,  that  they  do 
not  drink  twice  as  much  as  they 
do. 

The  superstition  which  exalts  bad 
cookery  and  calls  it  Englicdi  is  less 
strong  than  it  was,  and  among  the 
educated  classes  is  rapidly  passing 
away.  But  unhapinly  the  greater 
part  of  the  population  are  not  edu- 
cated—even to  an  appreciation  of 
the  commonest  comforts— and  are 
still  willing  victims  to  a  delusion 
unknown  in  any  other  civilized 
country. 

The  popular  delusion  in  the 
matter  of  wines,  which  has  endured 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  has 
a  greater  chance  of  being  dispelled ; 


Social  Superstkions. 


21 


and  if  the  mass  of  the  wine-drink- 
ing  population— 80  largely  increased 
of  late— still  cling  exclusively  to 
port  and  sherry,  it  is  surely  not 
for  want  of  other  wines  being  sug- 
gested eoually  to  their  palatas  and 
flieir  pocKets.  Port  is  now  favoured 
by  only  two  classes  of  persons— 
the  few  who  will  pay  fabulous  sums 
for  the  little  that  can  be  got  of  the 
best  kind,  and  the  many  who  are 
not  yet  influenced  by  the  light  wine 
movement,  and  still  incline  them- 
selves— from  superstitious  motives 
— to  any  concoction  called  by  the 
name.  The  former  need  not  be 
converted.  Their  taste  is  entitled 
to  the  highest  respect,  and  I  trust 
that  they  will  long  enjoy  the  means 
to  gratify  ii  The  latter  are  being 
converted  by  degrees,  if  we  may 
believe  in  statistics;  for  the  con- 
sumption or  port  which  comes  from 
Portugal  has  sensibly  decreased  of 
late  years,  and  it  is  not  to  be  sup- 
posed that  the  production  of  the 
spurious  article  can  have  increased 
in  the  face  of  the  increased  facilities 
for  obtaining  the  real  one.  The 
wines  of  all  other  wine-producing 
countries  are  now  largely  consnmed 
in  this  country;  and  the  natural 
conclusion  is  beyond  a  doubt — that 
the  majority  of  habitual  or  occa- 
casional  drinkers  of  wine  do  not 
drink  port,  while  the  minority  drink 
it  in  less  proportion  than  formerly. 
Sherry  has  made  a  firmer  stand,  and 
is  still  considered  a  necessary  wine, 
whatever  be  the  other  wines  which 
find  a  place  in  the  public  favour. 
There  is  a  competition,  too,  in  the 
market  between  sherry  and  sherry 
— that  is  to  say,  between  sherry  as 
usually  prepared  for  English  con- 
sumption, and  sherry  as  it  is  in  its 
natural  state;  and  other  Spanish 
wines  which  are  not  sherry,  but 
which  have  the  same  character,  are 
also  entering  the  field  of  opposition. 
The  'natural'  wines,  as  the  mer- 
chants call  them,  have  a  hard  fight 
for  it  at  present;  for  the  mass  of 
wine  drinkers  undoubtedly  prefer 
the  old  fiery  mixtures.  But  there 
is  a  demand  for  the  *  dry '  qualities 
rapidly  spreading,  and  palates  edu- 
cated to  these— dreadfully  doctored 
as  they  commonly  are — will  find 
out  in  time  that  they  can  be  better 


gratified  by  unadulterated  vintages, 
or  vintages  which  are  at  least  not 
deprived  of  their  original  character. 
Between  Spanish  wines  as  they 
ought  to  be  and  French  wines  as 
they  are— to  say  nothing  of  Italian, 
Hungarian,  and  Greek,  which  are 
making  their  way — the  time  is  pro- 
bably not  for  distant  when  the  su- 
perstition which  gave  exclusiveness 
to  port  and  sherry  will  be  known 
no  more. 

Port  is  associated  with  prejudice; 
and  prejudice  of  many  kinds  is 
breakmg  down  with  port.  I  allude 
especially  to  English  prejudice— to 
be  classed  with  superstition— in  re- 
ference to  things  continental.  There 
was  an  old  belief  that  one  English- 
man was  always  able  to  beat  three 
Frenchmen.  That  delusion  must 
surely  have  exploded;  and  I  may 
mention,  as  a  matter  of  personal 
experience,  that  I  once  made  the 
experiment  with  only  two  of  our 
lively  neighbours  —  and  signally 
failed.  But  the  superstitious  sense 
of  .superiority  on  the  part  of  our 
travelling  countrymen  on  the  Con- 
tinent still  prevails  to  a  great  ex- 
tent; the  principal  exception  being 
the  members  of  the  gentler  sex, 
who  have  thrown  off  their  tra- 
ditional reserve  in  a  remarkable 
manner,  and  dash  about  in  out-of- 
doors  dirersions  with  an  afiability 
which  is  a  wonder,  not  to  say  a 
scandal,  and  utterly  confutes  the 
stock  caricatures,  which,  in  Paris 
especially,  still  represent  the  Uonde 
misses  of  Albion  as  embodiments  of 
prudish  affectation— wearing  green 
veils  and  actual  bonnets,  and  re- 
garding the  social  freedom  of  France 
as  shocking,  quite  in  the  old  style. 
There  has,  to  be  sure,  been  lately 
opened  a  rival  vein  of  Fatire,  repre- 
sented in  periodicals  like  the  Kte 
Parisienne,  which  gives  the  English 
girl  in  her  gushing,  hatty,  high- 
heeled  aspect,  and  has  just  begun 
to  understand  the  joke  about  '  the 
period;'  but  this  development  is 
quite  recent— the  blonde  misse  still 
holds  her  own  in  the  shop  windows, 
and  it  will  be  years  before  she  is 
accepted  in  her  new  character. 

I  am  not  quite  sure  that  the  Eng- 
lish superstition  as  regards  our  re- 
lations towards   our  lively  neigh- 


22 


Social  SuperililionB, 


boms  has  been  dissipated  with 
xmmixed  advantage — as  far  as  the 
gentler  sex  is  concerned.  Bat  it 
must  be  admitted,  that  whether 
throngh  French  or  other  inflaecoe, 
English  women— inciuding  English 
girls  of  course — dress  a  great  deal 
better  than  they  did,  and— except 
when  they  make  caricatures  of  them* 
selves— cannot  be  accused  of  failing 
to  set  off  their  beauty  to  the  best 
advantage. 

The  mention  of  dress,  again,  sug- 
geslB  that  an  old  superstition  con- 
ceroing  costume  has  just  exploded. 
I  mean  that  which  made  it  de  rigueur 
£qt  gentlemen,  unless  in  some  kind 
of  uniform,  to  go  to  court  in  the 
habits  as  they  lived  of  our  fore- 
fathers in  the  middle  of  the  reign 
of  George  IIL  The  dress  was  both 
imcomfortable  and  incongruous,  and 
nobody  liked  it;  and  the  change  has 
at  least  this  advantage — that  it 
enables  a  nuui  to  wear  in  the  pre- 
sence of  his  sovereign  a  dress  of  the 
shape  to  which  he  is  accustomed  in 
common  life.  But  innovation  be- 
gets innovation,  and  now  we  find 
certain  levellers  condemning  the 
court  dress  worn  by  ladies  as  a 
superstition.  Why,  they  ask,  can- 
not ladies  go  to  the  drawing-rooms 
in  mornini?  dresses  with  high 
bodies?  Tliese  agitators,  would, 
it  seems,  get  rid  of  the  'feathers, 
blonde-cappets,  and  diamonds,'  and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  at  one  fell  swoop, 
on  the  ground  that  full  dress  hap- 
pening in  these  days  to  be  rather 
scanty,  ladies  who  go  to  drawing- 
rooms  are  apt  to  take  cold.  The 
agitators  may  depend  upon  it  that 
some  stronger  reason  than  this 
must  be  discovered  before  the  ladies 
concerned  will  join  the  agitation, 
even  if  such  a  simplification  would 
ever  be  permitted  by  the  milliners. 
//  faut  wnffiir  pour  ftre  bdlt  is  a 
social  decree  submitted  to  more 
philosophically  than  is  the  fate  of 
most  legal  decrees.  And  if  those 
who  wear  court  dresses  are  content 
to  suffer  in  one  way,  you  may  bo 
sure  that  tliose  who  make  them  will 
not  be  content  to  sutror  in  another. 
So  the  question,  I  fancy,  may  be 
safely  left  at  rest  between  the  two. 

Among  superstitions  which  still 
survive,  may  be  mentioned  the  be- 


lief in  some  apocryphal  period 
known  as  the  'palmy  days  of  the 
drama.'  When  these  days  existed, 
and  what  they  were  like,  is  not  easy 
to  determine.  For  we  find  no  con- 
temporary evidence  of  their  exist- 
ence; it  has  never  been  handed 
down  to  us  that  [people  have  said, 
'  These  are  the  palmy  days  of  the 
drama ;  I  am  content  with  the  con- 
dition of  the  stage.'  On  the  con- 
trary, from  the  earliest  times  of 
which  we  are  able  to  take  anything 
like  a  near  view,  the  cry  has  always 
been  that  the  regular  drama  was 
neglected  whenever  there  were 
counter  attractions  in  the  form  of 
French  dancing  girls,  performing 
dogs  or  monkeys,  or  even  such 
exhibitions  oa  puppet  shows.  No- 
body seems  ever  to  have  heard  of 
the  palmy  days  of  the  drama  until 
they  bad  passed  away,  and  then  the 
praises  had  a  suspicious  appearance 
of  being  rung  for  the  teni]»ora  acii 
in  !the  abstract  Great  actors  and 
actresses  have  lived  no  doubt  before 
the  Agamemnons  of  our  own  time, 
and  their  Homers  have  kept  their 
fame  aUve ;  but  it  must  be  doubted 
if  the  drama— that  is  to  say  the 
regular  drama— has  had  such  great 
days  for  its  own  sake  as  has  been 
made  out  The  days  of  which  we 
liave  the  most  distinct  idea  are  those 
comparatively  early  in  the  century, 
when  enthusiastic ;  people  used  to 
go  to  the  pit  door  of  iJrury  Lane, 
and  wait  from  two  o'clock  in  the 
day  to  see  Mrs.  Sid  dons,  or  the 
Kembles,  and  later  still  the  elder 
Keon— buy  a  bill  in  the  street,  and 
6tru£rg1e  for  the  attainment  of  three 
hours'  intellectual  ecstacy.  One 
may  suppose  that  the  re\vard  was 
greater  than  could  be  gained  now 
by  a  similar  process— supposing  the 
process  to  be  necessary;  but  the 
fact  was  due  to  exceptional  circum- 
stances ;  and  if  the  public  taste  was 
high,  it  hod  not  so  many  invitations 
as  it  has  in  the  present  day  to  be- 
come low.  If  there  were  better 
actors  there  were  certainly  worse, 
and  the  same  may  be  said  of  the 
pieces  which  obtained  popularity — 
the  inferior  class  of  which  would 
not  be  listened  to  now,  as  has  been 
proved  by  occasional  experiments. 
There  is  a  larger  public  in  these 


Social  SuperstUiom, 


23 


ixmeB;  but  even  making  allowance 
for  the  fact,  a  larger  proportionate 
amount  of  money  is  spent  upon  the 
drama  than  used  to  be  spent,  dra- 
matic authors  make  larger  profits, 
•  and  dramatic  performers  are  better 
paid.  It  is  true  that  plays  of  a  low 
class,  and  players  of  a  low  class, 
aometimes  succeed,  as  well  as  plays* 
and  players  of  a  higher  class— some- 
limes  better,  ind^,  when  a  tho« 
zoagh  hit  is  made.  But  this  has 
always  been  the  case ;  and  they  do 
not  fail  because  they  are  of  a  high 
^slass.  When  such  pieces  are  un- 
.sncoessfal  it  is  because  there  is 
something  wrong  about  them  — 
because  they  are  cumbrous,  dull, 
and  unfitted  for  the  stage.  A  great 
deal  of  fftlse  sentiment  would  once 
|>as8  for  real,  and  a  great  many 
atuations  which  we  have  discoTered 
to  be  claptrap  were  accepted  by  our 
lorefathers  in  good  faith.  On  the 
whole,  judging  by  the  number  of 
theatres  we  have,  and  the  number 
of  pieces  that  fill  them,  and  the 
standard  of  excellence  demanded  by 
most  of  the  audiences,  it  must  be  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  the  drama 
has  declined  or  is  declining.  There- 
fQxe  the  belief  in  the  palmy  days,  as 
compared  with  our  own  —  which, 
however,  is  far  weaker  than  it  was 
— ^must  be  ranked  among  the  super- 
stitions. 

An  alleged  cause  of  the  supposed 
decline  of  the  drama  is  the  late 
hour  at  which  most  of  us  dine.  It  has 
become  later  and  later  in  the  course 
of  the  last  few  years,  and  we  seem 
rapidly  arriving  at  the  fsishionable 
pomt  said  to  have  been  attained  by 
a  late  American  president,  who  was 
such  a  great  man  that  he  never  took 
his  dinner  until  the  next  day !  But 
it  is  made  later,  and  worse  than 
later  because  less  certain,  by  a  su- 
perstitious custom  which  prevails 
of  the  host  fixing  one  time  and 
the  guests  assembling  at  another. 
The  inconvenience  was  pointed  out 
the  other  day  in  a  morning  journal, 
and  it  is  one  which  decidedly  de- 
mands reform.  Everybody  under- 
stands that  a  little  grace  is  allowed 
beyond  the  quarter-past  seven, 
quarter  to  eight,  or  eight,  set  down 
in  the  invitation ;  but  nobody  knows 
exactly  how  much,  tmless  well  ac- 


quainted with  the  custom  of  the 
particular  house.  And  as  few 
choose  to  incur  the  embarrassment 
of  being  too  early,  a  groat  many 
ran  the  hazard  of  being  too  late. 
The  consequence  is  an  amount  of 
confusion  and  annoyance  which  is 
felt  equally  by  host  and  guest 
There  is  only  one  way  of  destroy- 
ing this  monstrous  delusicm,  and 
saving  the  enormous  amount  of 
time  and  temper  which  it  wastes 
in  the  course  of  the  year;  that  is, 
to  issue  invitations  for  the  exact 
hour  at  which  the  party  is  expected 
to  be  assembled,  with  a  special  pro- 
vision as  to  punctuality  until  the 
rule  becomes  generally  understood. 
While  on  the  sulijeot  of  dinners, 
I  may  mention  a  custom  vdiieh  is 
surely  founded  upon  superstition, 
and  ought  to  be  banished  for  ever 
from  civilised  society— the  only  so- 
ciety in  which  it  prevails.  Why 
should  we  be  obliged  to  perf<»m 
the  not  yery  difficult  operati(«  of 
dividing  our  food  into  morsels  fitted 
for  the  mouth  with  a  weapon  so 
formidable  and  effectiye  that  we 
could  employ  it 'with  the  greatest 
ease  to  cut  the  throat  of  our  nest 
neighbour  from  ear  to  ear?  Had 
we  to  kill  the  meat  in  the  first  in- 
stance one  could  understand  the 
propriety  of  being  so  armed;  for 
the  sake  of  carving  joints  that  bore 
and  birds  that  bewilder,  such  an 
instrument  is  appropriate  enough. 
But  why  place  it  in  the  hands  of 
persons  who  have  only  their  own 
mouths  to  accommodate?  It  is 
enough  to  embarrass  a  nervous 
man,  and  how  that  very  uncom- 
fortable person,  '  the  most  delicate 
lady,'  manages  to  survive  the  re- 
sponsibility is  one  of  those  mar- 
yels  which  can  be  accounted  for 
only  by  custom  founded  on  the 
grossest  superstition.  The  anomaly 
exists  bat  in  association  with  Euro- 
pean manners.  The  natives  of  the 
EM;,  and  semi-civilised  people  else- 
where, would  not  dream  of  such  an 
enormity.  I  do  not  insist,  of  course, 
that  people  ought  to  eat  with  their 
fingers;  and  chopsticks  are  natu- 
rally unfitted  for  dividing  a  steak. 
But  when  knives  are  wanted— and 
they  are  not  wanted,  nor  used,  for 
many  dishes— why  should  we  be 


24 


Socicd  SupersiUions. 


made  to  use  a  murderous  weapon  ? 
One  can  fancy  them  fitted  for  the 
days  of  old,  when  km'ghts  carved  at 
the  meal  in  gloves  of  steel  and 
drank  the  red  wine  through  the 
helmet  barred ;  but  in  those  times 
people  used  their  own  knives  at 
the  table,  and  employed  them,  upon 
occasion,  in  casual  combats.  Such 
is  not  now  the  custom,  though 
there  are  instances  of  the  proceed- 
ing on  the  part  of  violent  persons 
even  when  engaged  at  the  meal 
itself;  and  the  temptation  is  one 
which  should  not  be  thrown  in  the 
way  of  men  of  ungovernable  tem- 
pers, exasperated,  it  may  be,  by  the 
bad  dinner  of  humble  life.  But 
these  enormous  knives  are  given  us 
odviEcdly,  and  so  careful  is  custom 
in  measuring  the  supposed  neces- 
sities of  the  case,  that  for  the  lighter 
descriptions  of  food  smaller  knives 
are  given,  so  that  you  are  supposed 
to  calculate  the  amount  of  force  re- 
quired at  every  course,  and  always 
employ  it  accordingly.  It  is  always 
a  comfort  to  get  to  a  little  knife 
after  a  large  one  —  it  is  like  the 
sense  of  peace  and  security  that 
comes  after  a  fray— and  no  knife 
need  be  larger  than  the  silver  one 

gut  on  for  dessert,  if  indeed  it  need 
e  so  large;   and  I  need  scarcely 
odd  that  forks  might  be  modified 
in  proportion. 
There  are  a  few  superstitions  in 


connection  with  our  language  whicb 
may  be  pointed  out  in  this  place. 
There  have  been  a  great  many  in 
most  times;  but  some  have  dis- 
appeared while  others  have  arisen, 
and  there  are  not  mauy  now  re- 
maining. Among  them  I  will  note 
only  some  peculiarities  in  pronun- 
ciation. We  still  call  Derby  Darby 
and  Berkeley  Berkeley,  Fall  Mall 
Pell  Mell,  not  to  add  other  instances. 
Contractions,  too,  are  not  un&e> 
quent  Thus  we  cannot  ask  if  the 
Marquis  of  Cholmondeley  is  at 
home,  giving  the  syllables  their 
legitimate  sound,  witiiout  running 
the  risk  of  being  told  by  a  facetious 
servant  that  he  will  refer  us  to  some 
of  his  people.  If  we  ask  for  the 
Marquis  of  Ghumley  we  shall  be 
treated  at  least  with  respect. 
Again,  we  must  not  say  Leveson 
Gower,  but  Leusou  Gore,  unless  we 
wish  to  be  supposed  out  of  the  pale 
of  society;  and  Mr.  Marjoribtuiks 
would  consider  us  a  Goth  if  we 
called  him  anything  but  March- 
banks.  These  are  only  some  of 
the  cases  that  mieht  be  cited. 
Are  they  not  founded  upon  su- 
perstition ? 

There  are  other  superstitious  ob- 
servances in  social  Ufe  to  which  I 
might  refer ;  but  I  dare  say  I  have 
cited  illustrations  enough,  and  the 
rest  may  suggest  themselves  to  your 
mind  without  my  assistance. 

Sidney  L.  Elanchard. 


25 


ANCIENT  HOSTELBIES,  AND  THE  MEN  WHO  FRE- 
QUENTED THEM. 

C0nc(rnCng  ^nfiM,  ffiragotutf,  KtCts  certain  ancient  Salacej^. 

ONG  ago,  when  the  elder  Mr. 
WeUer,  disciifising  valentines, 
asked  'What  was  the  nse  o' 
callin'  a  yonng  woman  a  angel  ?' 
and  added  that  you  'might  as 
well  call  her  a  Grifi&n  or  a  King's 
Arms,  which  is  werry  well  known 
to  be  a  collection  of  fabulous  ani- 
mals/ he  displayed. a  deep  and 
significant  knowledge  in  the  matter 
of  tayern  signs. 

It  is  satisfactory  to  know,  how- 
ever, that  while  'The  Devil'  (of 
which  fiEunous  hostelry  we  have 
already  gossiped)  was  only  an  ab- 
breviation of  a  title  which  owed  its 
dignity  more  to  Saint  Dunstan 
than  to  the  arch-enemy,  there  have 
been,  and  still  are,  ^gels  which 
claim  our  respectful  observation. 
Perhaps  the  most  noted  of  the  old 
places  bearing  this  sign  was  that 
which  formerly  stood  near  the  entrance  of  Clement's  Inn,  opposite  the 
railings  of  the  church  of  St.  Clement  Danes.  The  locality  itself  was 
ancient  enough  to  give  an  antiquarian  interest  to  the  hostelry,  which, 
however,  was  not  so  old  as  the  locality,  though  doubtless  a  house  of  enter- 
tainment stood  there  even  in  the  days  when  Henry  HI.  granted  a  piece  of 
ground  close  by  to  Walter  le  Bruin,  the  carrier,  for  the  purpose  of  erecting 
a  forge  on  it  The  suit  and  service  demanded  of  this  doughty  disciple  of 
St  Clement  was  that  he  should  annually  render  to  the  exchequer  a  quit 
rent  of  six  horseshoes,  with  the  nails  belonging  to  them ;  and  when  the 
groimd  afterwards  came  into  possession  of  the  City,  the  same  stipulation 
was  demanded  of  the  sheriffs,  who  either  themselves  or  by  an  ofQcer  of  the 
court  had  to  produce  the  horseshoes  and  the  nails  at  the  time  of  their 
swearing  in,  and  to  count  them  before  the  Cursitor  Baron,  who  represented 
the  sovereign.  This  custom  is  now,  we  believe,  disused,  and  the  Angel 
itself,  an  old-fashioned  coaching-house,  once  the  resort  of  '  gentlemen  of 
the  long  robe,'  has  long  ago  disappeared  under  that  title.  On  its  site, 
however,  another  hostelry  has  risen,  which  is  certainly  quite  as  famous, 
and  is  probably  as  well  known  to  members  of  the  legal  profession  as  it  is 
to  the  .artists  and  men  engaged  in  literary  pursuits  whose  business  take& 
them  Strandward. 

The  late  proprietor,  father  of  the  present  Mr.  Carr,  gave  his  own  name 
to  the  modem  representative  of  *  The  Angel,'  and  it  soon  achieved  a  repu- 
tation which  it  still  preserves  as  a  place  where  a  sound  English  dinner 
may  be  accompanied  by  sound  French  wine,  a  combination  particularly 
acceptable  to  modem  tastes,  especially  as '  Carr's'  is  distinguished  for  giving 
its  customers  the  benefit  of  the  reduced  duties  on  light  wines,  and  so  has 
set  an  example  to  other  hostel ries  which  it  is  to  be  regretted  has  not  been 
very  vndely  followed.  It  may  be  said  that  this  is  one  of  the  few  places 
where  the  conditions  of  the  ancient  hostelry  are  preserved  in  regard  to  the 
provision  of  substantial  fare  with  the  liquids  that  our  forefathers  drank 
before  the  Methuen  treaty  banished  claret  and  Burgimdy  from  British 
tables  in  favour  of  black  strap  and  fiery  sherry,  so  that  the  best  elements 


26 


AneieiU  HostdrieSf  and  the  Men  who  Frequented  them. 


of  the  Angel  and  its  predecessors 
reappear  notwithstanding  the  inno- 
vations of  time.  It  may  be  hoped 
that  the  new  law  courts  will  leave 
the  old  site  unmolested.  The  Inn 
of  St.  Clement  was  originally,  it  is 
supposed^  a  hoose  of  entertainment 
near  the  monastery^  and  leoeiYed 
penitents  who  came  to  6t  Clement's 
Well,  the  Holy  well  which  gave 
its  name  to  the  adjoining  street 
As  early  as  Edward  II.,  however,  it 
was  an  inn  of  Chancery,  and  the 
monastery  having  been  removed,  the 
Holy  Lamb,  an  inn  on  the  west  side 
of  the  lane,  received  the  pious  as 
well  as  the  more  secular  guests. 

The  only  other  'Angel'  which 
seems  to  have  obtained  general  re- 
cognition is  the  Angel  at  Islington, 
bat  its  fiune,  like  that  of  the  Ele- 
phant and  Castle,  at  the  end  of  the 
BcHOughand  the  top  of  Walworth, 
is  connected  less  with  its  antiquity 
or  its  reputation  as  an  hostelry  than 
with  its  being  regarded  as  a  land- 
mark and  a  place  where  travellers 
took  coach  for  long  or  short  jour- 
neys. The  Elephant  and  Castle, 
by-the-by,  was,  half  a  century  ago 
or  little  more,  only  a  one-storied, 
low-roofed  roadside  inn,  a  pic- 
turesque place  enough,  with  a  gal- 
lery outside,  and  derived  no  small 
degree  of  its  reputation  from  the 
adjoining  chapel,  a  building  in- 
scribed in  gigantic  capitals  'The 
House  of  Qod,'  and  used  by  the  fol- 
lowers of  Joanna  Southcott,  pictures 
of  whose  dreams  and  visions  were 
painted  on  the  interior  walls. 

There  have  been  several  celebrated 
hostelhes  at  Islington,  however, 
when  that  ancient  suburb  was 
rightly  called  *  merrie,*  and  was  cele- 
brated, not  only  for  its  ponds  where 
the  Londoners  went  '  ducking,'  but 
for  its  cheesecakes  and  custards. 
Pepys  records  how  his  father  used 
to  carry  him  '  to  Islington  to  the 
old  man's  at  the  King's  Head  to  eat 
cakes  and  ale  (his  name  was  Pitts),' 
and  after  that  the  once  noted  wells 
were  discovered  by  Sadler  in  the 
garden  of  a  house  which  he  had 
opened  as  a  public  music-room.  It 
ia  at  Sadler's  Wells,  opposite  the  Sir 
Hugh  Myddeltoo  Tavern,  that  Ho- 
garth laid  the  scene  of  his  '  Evening.' 
It  was  in  1683  that  these  wells,  very 


much  resembling  the  waters  of  Tun- 
bridge  Weils  in  their  medidnal  pro- 
perties, were  opened;  and  in  1684 
appewed  a  squib  called  '  A  Morning 
Eambie ;  or,  Islington  Wells  bur- 
lesqt,'  in  which  the  author  apostro- 
phnes  the  saborb  Ǥ  'Audacious 
andnBOomeionablelaliogton!  Was 
it  not  enough  that  thou  haflt,  time 
out  of  mind,  been  the  metrapolitan 
of  cakes,  custards,  and  sfcefwed 
pmans?'— famous  for  bottled  ale 
that  Begius  the  Huzza  before  one 
drinks  the  health,  and  statutable 
cans  nine  at  least  to  the  quart. 
The  fame  of  Islington  cakes  is  no- 
ticed by  several  writers,  and  itseeniB 
to  ba,i9  enjoyed  an  equal  reputation 
for  costards,  cream,  and  milk.  'A 
man  who  gives  the  natural  iiifltay 
of  the  cow  is  not  to  ten  b<nr  many 
cows  are  milked  at  Uiogton,'  i^s 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  it  would  seem  that 
this  iwml  assodation  with  dairy 
prodnoe  m  atill  the  chaaetaristie  ot 
the  neigbbooriiood.  It  maj  be  be- 
lieved, theretoe,  tbat  the  hostelries 
were  pretty  well  supported  by  the 
holiday-makers  who  wanted  some- 
thing either  to  qualify  the  water  of 
Sadler's  Wells  or  to  accompany  the 
ci^es  of  their  suburban  haunt.  It 
was  in  afirst  fiocnrof  the  'Old  Parr's 
Head'  that  John  Henderson  is  said 
to  have  made  his  first  ess^y  in 
acting,  and  the  Old  Pied  Bull  was 
still  more  celebrated,  since  it  was 
declared  to  have  once  been  a  villa 
belonging  to  Sir  Walter  fialeigh. 
Then  there  was  the  Bed  Bull 
Theatre,  in  St.  John's  Street  Boad, 
originally,  it  is  believed,  the  Bed 
Bull  InD,  whose  ample  yard  baviDg 
been  used  for  acting  plays  or  other 
performances,  was  at  last  converted 
into  a  regular  theatre  kte  in  the 
reign  of  Qaeen  Elizabeth.  It  was 
there  that  the  king's  players  per- 
formed, under  the  management  of 
EilUgrew,  till  the  stage  in  Drury 
Lane  was  ready.  After  this  it  be- 
came a  kind  of  fencing-«chooU  or 
rather  a  theatre  for  the  display  of 
strength  and  feats  of  arms.  'The 
Bed  Bull  stands  empty  for  fencers,' 
eajs  Davenant  in  1663;  'there  are 
no  tenante  in  it  but  spiders.'  Pupils 
of  celebrated  masters  of  the  noble 
art  of  self-defence  were  pitted  against 
each  other  there,  and  the  *  sets-to' 


AncieiU  Mostdrtea,  and  the  Men  who  Frequented  them,  27 


comprised  bouts  with  'backsword, 
single  rapier,  sword  and  dagger, 
rapier  and  dagger,  sword  and  buck- 
ler, half-pike  sword  and  gauntlet, 
«jid  single  feiulchion.' 

When  once  we  commence  with 
the  '  Balls'  we  have  a  list  of  hostel- 
ries  famous  alike  for  their  antiquity 
and  for  the  recollections  of  the  men 
who  once  resorted  to  their  hospitable 
portals.  Curious  enough,  two  of  the 
'Buir  fraternity  obtained  their 
names  from  a  corruption  of  the  ori- 
ginal sign.  The  Bull  and  Gate  iu 
Holbom  was,  according  to  Steevens, 
the  Shakspearian  commentator  (who 
^ined  the  information  from  the 
title-page  of  an  old  play),  no  other 
than  the  'BuUogpe  Gate,'  a  sign 
adopted  in  compliment  to  Henry 
YIIL  after  the  taking  of  Boulogne 
in  1544.  It  was  a  celebrated  hos- 
telry for  travellers  in  the  time  of 
Fielding,  who  makes  Tom  Jones 
alight  there  on  his  arrival  in  London, 
and  once  more  retreat  there,  by 
the  advice  of  Partridge,  during  his 
efforts  to  discover  Sophia.  A  similar 
corruption  was  that  of  the  Ball  and 
Mouth,  which  should  have  been 
Boulogne  Mouth,  once  to  be  seen  iu 
St.  Martin's-le-Grand,  and  said  by 
Strype  to  be  '  of  a  good  resort  by 
tho^  that  bring  bonae  lace,  where 
the  shopkeep^  and  others  come  to 
buy  it.  In  this  part  of  St.  Martin's,' 
be  goes  on,  'is  a  noted  meeting- 
house of  the  Quakers,  called  the 
Bull  and  Mouth,  and  where  they 
met  long  before  the  fire.' 

At  the  Bull's  Head  in  Clare  Mar- 
ket the  celebrated  Dr.  Eadcliffe  was 
a  frequent  guest  It  was  Badcliffe, 
whose  skill  was  so  great  that  he 
could  afford  to  apply  his  witticisms 
even  to  royalty;  for  when  he  was 
called  upon  to  attend  William  III., 
who  showed  him  his  swollen  legs 
and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of 
them,  he  replied,  'Why,  truly,  I 
would  not  have  your  majesty's  two 
legs  for  your  three  kingdoms.'  The 
blunt  answer  gave  no  little  offence, 
but  the  eminent  physician,  who  was 
afterwards  member  of  parliament 
for  Buckingham,  and  founded  the 
famous  library  at  Oxford,  seemed  to 
care  very  little  even  for  royal  favour. 
It  was  at  the  Bull's  Head,  too,  that 
the  artists'  club,  of  which  Hogarth 


was  a  member,  held  its  meetings. 
Then  there  is  the  Bull  Head  Ta- 
vern at  Charing  Cross,  remarkable 
chiefly  as  being  next  door  to  the 
house  (opening  on  to  Spring  Gar- 
dens)  where  Milton  lived  for  a  short 
time.  More  notorious  than  this  was 
the  Golden  Cross,  in  the  same 
locality,  the  resort  of  that  consum- 
mate ruffian  Dick  England,  who 
frequented  that  place  for  the  pur- 
pose of  picking  up  victims  among 
the  Irishmen  who  came  to  London 
by  the  coaches  that  made  the  house 
their  halting-place.  There  have 
been  few  such  oonsununate  black- 
legs as  England,  who  contrived  to 
make  such  profits  by  betting  and 
gambling  that  he  not  only  kept  an 
elegant  house  in  St.  Alban's  Street, 
but  actually  engaged  inasters  to  in- 
struct him  in  polite  literature,  and 
impart  to  him  the  graces  of  fashion- 
able life.  He  was  made  president 
of  the  four  o'clock  ordinary  at  Mun- 
day's  coffee-house,  gave  large  sums 
for  the  horses  on  which  he  rode 
about  town,  and  carried  on  this 
elegant  career  in  spite  of  his  rival, 
G«orge  Mahon,  who  seems  to  have 
had  less  finesse  than  England,  and 
perhaps  was  a  little  lees  ready  to  back 
his  luck  by  an  appeal  to  the  sword. 
Pay  or  fight  was  England's  general 
rule,  when  the  stakes  were  high 
enough  to  make  the  risk  worth 
while;  and  as  he  was  an  accom- 
plished duellist  as  well  as  a  bully, 
he  generally  contrived  to  obtain 
debts  of  honour.  At  last,  on  the 
iSth  of  June,  1784,  he  challenged  a 
brewer  of  Kingston,  from  whom  he 
had  won  a  large  sum  of  money,  and 
killed  his  opponent  in  Leicester 
Fields,  in  consequence  of  which  he 
was  compelled  to  leave  the  country 
and  fled  to  Paris,  where  he  con- 
trived to  convey  such  useful  infor- 
mation of  the  revolution  to  our 
army  during  the  campaign  in  Flan- 
ders, that  he  became  a  paid  agent  of 
the  British  cabinet  Several  times 
he  was  committed  to  prison,  and  his 
neck  was  in  danger  of  the  guillotine, 
but  he  contrived  to  get  off;  and  at 
last,  expecting  perhaps  that  his  ser- 
vices had  expiated  his  crime,  came 
to  England,  where  he  was  appre- 
hendea  and  punished  with  the  fine 
of  a  shilling  and  one  year's  imprison- 


Ancient  HostdrieSy  and  the  Men  toko  Frequented  them. 


ment  His  careor  had  oome  to  an 
end,  however,  for  on  his  release  he 
was  heard  of  no  moie,  but  lived  in 
comparative  poverty  at  his  house  in 
Leicester  Square.  Ho  did  live,  how- 
ever, to  beyond  the  ordinary  term 
of  men's  lives,  for  he  was  eighty 
years  old  when  he  was  found  lying 
dead  on  a  sofa  by  the  person  who 
went  to  call  him  to  dinner. 

To  return  to  the  Bulls,  however,  it 
is  necessary  to  retrace  our  steps  to 
the  City,  where  the  old  Bull  Inn  in 
Bi^opsgate  was  once  the  resort  of 
rare  company.  We  have  before 
spoken  of  the  adaptations  of  the  old 
um  yards  to  the  purpose  of  a  theatie, 
and  the  Bull  in  Bishopsgate  was 
one  of  the  most  famous  for  these 
early  stage  plays.  Before  Burbage 
and   his   companions    obtained   a 

Eatent  from  Queen  Elizabeth  for 
uilding  a  regular  theatre,  the  actors 
found  space  in  the  yard  of  the  Boll 
for  their  dramatic  representations, 
and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Shake* 
speare  himself,  who  for  some  time,  it 
is  believed,  lived  in  the  parish  of 
Saint  Helen,  Bishoppgate,  witnessed, 
if  he  did  not  have  any  special  interest 
in  these  performances.  It  is  certain 
that  the  humorist  Tarlton  often 
played  there,  as  he  did  at  the  old 
Belle  Sauvage ;  and  close  to  the  old 
hostelry  lived  Anthony  Bacon  (the 
brother  of  tbo  great  essayist  and 
philosopher),  much  to  the  anxiety  of 
his  mother,  who  feared  lest  the 
morals  of  his  servants  might  be  cor- 
rupted by  the  vicinity  of  the  play- 
house,~-and  also  lamented  the  want 
of  spiritual  advantages  in  a  parish 
which  was  '  without  a  godly  clergy- 
man.' The  Bull  is  perhaps  still 
more  memorable  as  the  place  to 
which  the  celebrated  Hobson,  the 
Cambridge  carrier,  used  to  go  when 
he  made  his  journey  to  London. 
'This  memorable  man,'  says  the 
'  Spectator,' '  stands  drawn  in  fresco 
at  an  inn  in  Bishopsgato  Street,  with 
a  hundred  pound  bag  under  his 
arm,  with  this  inscription  on  the 
said  bag : 

'The  fruitful  mother  of  an  bandred  more/ 

Well  may  Hobson  be  said  to  be  a 
memorable  man,  since  he  had  the 
honour  of  two  epitaphs  written  by 
Milton.  He  was  bom  about  1544, 
and  inherited  from  his  father  '  the 


team  ware  with  which  he  now  goeth, 
that  is  to  say,  the  cart  and  eight 
horses,  harness,  nag,  &c'  Monthly 
for  many  years  he  passed  between 
the  University  and  the  Bull  Inn, 
carrying  letters,  parcels,  and  occa- 
sionally passengers.  To  this  busi- 
ness he  added  that  of  letting  horses 
for  hire,~inde6d  he  is  said  to  have 
been  the  first  person  in  the  kingdom 
who  engaged  in  the  trade,  and  his 
role  of  never  allowing  any  horse  to 
leave  the  stable  except  in  its  proper 
order  added  to  his  celebrity  by 
making  him  responsible  for  the 
celebrated  proverb  known  as  Hob- 
son's  choice— 'that  or  none.'  So 
well  did  he  thrive  by  this  business 
of  letting  horses  to  the  collegians, 
that  in  1604  he  contributed  50^.  to 
the  loan  of  King  James  I.,  and  in 
1626  he  gave  a  large  Bible  to  the 
church  of  the  parish  of  St  Benedict, 
where  he  resided,  while  two  years 
later  he  presented  to  the  CTniversity 
and  town  the  land  for  the  Spinning 
House,  otherwise  known  as  Hob- 
son's  workhouse.  By  that  time  he 
had  acquired  considerable  estates, 
and  at  his  death,  which  occurred  at 
the  age  of  eighty-five,  in  1 6  30,  during 
the  time  that  his  visits  to  London 
were  suspended  by  the  authorities 
on  account  of  the  plague,  he  be- 
queathed, beside  property  to  his 
family,  money  to  the  Corporation 
and  the  profits  of  the  pasture  land 
(now  the  site  of  Downing  College) 
towards  the  heightening  and  pre- 
servation of  the  conduit  in  Cam- 
bridge. He  also  left  money  to  the 
poor  of  Cambridge,  Chesterton, 
Waterbeach,  Cottenham,  and  Boun- 
tingford.  He  was  buried  in  the 
chancel  of  the  church  of  St  Bene- 
dict, but  neither  monument  nor  in- 
scription marks  the  spot,  although 
the  author  of  *  Paradise  Lost '  wrote 
the  punning  elegy  upon  him,  which 
says: 

'  Ease  was  hLs  chief  diseiue :  and,  to  judge  right. 
He  died  for  weariness  that  his  cart  went  light : 
HLi  leisure  told  him  that  his  time  was  come. 
And  lack  of  load  made  his  life  burdensome. 
Obedient  tu  the  moon  he  spent  bis  date 
In  course  reciprocal,  and  bad  his  fate 
Linked  to  the  mutual  flowing  of  the  seas ; 
Yet,  strange  to  thluk,  his  tram  was  his  in- 

crtoM. 
His  letters  are  delivered  all  and  gone, 
Only  remains  this  superscription.' 


Ancient  Hostdries,  and  the  Men  wlio  Frequented  them. 


He  seems  to  haye  been  generally 
esteemed,  at  any  rate,  and  several 
portraits  of  him  were  long  preserved, 
one  of  which  was  to  be  seen  nntil 
the  beginning  of  the  present  oentnry 
at  the  ancient  hostelry  of  which  he 
was  so  remarkable  a  visitor. 

There  is  very  little  of  its  antiquity 
now  remaining  at  the  Bnll,  how- 
ever, and  in  a  few  years  there  may 
be  only  one  or  two  of  these  quaint 
old  inns  remaining  in  the  City,  or, 
for  that  matter,  in  any  part  of  Lon- 
don. The  Four  Swans,  which  once 
also  stood  on  Bishopsgate,  has  made 
way  for  'modern  improvements,' 
and  the  Vine  and  the  Green  Dragon 
alone  remain  to  keep  their  ancient 
comradecompany.  The  Green  Dragon 
is  perhaps  one  of  the  best  remaining 
examples  of  the  old  hostelry,  and 
something  like  the  old  style  is  scru- 
pulously retained  there,  for  although 
the  proprietor  has  continued  to 
maintein  the  building  in  firesh  re- 
pair, it  is  difficult  to  discover  where 
the  hand  of  time  had  imprinted  it 
with  decay.  One  innovation  is  at 
least  a  pleasant  one :  the  queer  ex- 
ternal galleries,  a  little  modernised 
in  their  renovation,  have  been  en- 
closed with  glass,— and  on  a  trellis- 
work  leading  up  to  the  balcony 
luxuriant  creeping  plants  have  been 
made  to  twine,  so  as  to  give  a  cool 
and  refreshing  aspect  to  the  old  inn 
yard  in  summer-time.  There  is,  in 
fact,  a  wonderful  vitality  in  the  Green 
Dragon,  which  still  opens  its  hos- 
pitable jaws  for  scores  of  guests  who 
go  daily  to  dine  in  its  low-oeilinged 
rooms,  with  great  beams  at  all  sorts 
of  angles,  and  shining  mahogany 
tables  and  old-fashioned  boxes, 
where  a  party  of  six  can  find  com- 
fortable elbow-room.  The  Dragon 
is  great  in  rich  soups  and  mighty 
joints  of  prime  succulent  meat  and 
substantial  eating  in  general,— dis- 
daining modern  embellishments  and 
French  kickshaws,  and  caring  very 
little  about  patent  methods.  Con- 
tenting itself  with  an  old-&shioned 
range  and  a  good  plain  cook,  and 
old  wines  that  have  stood  the  test  of 
opinion  for  three  generations :  so  that 
it  may  be  said  to  flourish  in  a  Green 
(Dragon)  old  ago  and  is  no  unfit 
representative  of  its  old  patron  who 
'  wealthy  grew  by  warrantable  &me.' 


The  demands  of  modem  society, 
and  especially  the  influence  of  rail- 
ways, which  have  shortened  long 
journeys  and  the  enormous  growth 
of  suburban  London,  which  provides 
residences  for  those  who  formerly 
lived  near  their  business  in  the  City, 
have  gone  far  to  diminish  the  number 
of  those  ancient  ho^telries,  once  the 
representatives  of  good  cheer  and 
unqaestioned  comfort  Many  of  the 
old  places  have  entirely  disappeaied, 
and  new  piles  of  building  devoted 
to  offices  and  mercantQe  warehouseB 
have  made  the  sites  which  they 
once  occupied  almost  undisoover- 
able.  Othera  have  been  suffered  to 
go  to  decay,  and  are  now  used  for 
other  purposes.  We  spoke,  in  a 
former  number,  of  that  good  old 
hostelry  the  Saracen's  Head  in  Aid- 
gate,  where  once  the  noted  sign 
hung  as  one  of  London's  landmarCs. 
Since  that  notice  was  written  we 
have  learned  that  there  is  still  a 
Saracen's  Head,  a  tavern,  kept  by 
the  daughter  of  the  last  proprietor 
of  the  venerable  hostelry,  and  that 
the  original  sign,  vast,  weighty,  and  of 
terribly  grim  presence,  now  gives  its 
name  to  a  house  in  Northumberland 
Alley,  in  Fenchurch  Street.  More 
than  that,  the  frequenten  of  the 
ancient  place,  or  their  modem  repre- 
sentatives, have  preserved  their 
allegiance,  and  in  ihe  little  parlour 
of  the  Saracen's  Head  of  to^y  we 
may  still  meet  the  sturdy  North 
Sea  pilots  who  came  thither  for  their 
pay  after  a  blusterous  voyage  that 
has  perhaps  kept  them  beating 
about  the  coast  of  Norway,  with  the 
Tision  of  their  hit  hostess  and  the 
hoped-for  rest  and  food  and  fire  that 
awaited  them  in  this  queer  nook  of 
old  London  to  cheer  them  in  anxious 
watches  and  the  driving  mist  and 
spray  of  their  long  nights  at  eea. 

There  is  another  house  in  Fen- 
church Street  which  cannot  well  be 
left  out  in  a  gossip  about  London 
and  its  hostelries;  and  it  has  con- 
trived to  combine  with  its  quaint 
reputation  a  skilful  adaptation  to 
modem  wants.  It  was  at  the 
King's  Head,  named  after  her  royal 
father,  that  Queen  Elizabeth  is  said 
to  have  dined  on  her  way  from  the 
Tower  after  her  short  imprisonment ; 
and  thoagh  there  may  be  sceptics 


30 


Andmt  Hostelries^  and  the  Men  who  Frequented  them* 


whoare  inclined  to  doubt  tho  identity 
of  the  dish  and  platter  exhibited  as 
the  veritable  articles  used  at  the 
table  of  the  great  princess, — and  the 
present  antique  character  of  the 
handsome  smoking-room  is  some- 
what indebted  to  modem  imitatiTO 
art,  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  old 
place  has  so  kept  abreast  of  the 
times  that  even  City  clerks  and 
hurried  merchants  can  dine  there 
from  more  toothsome  viands  than 
many  that  graced  the  royal  tables 
in  the  days  of  its  first  prosperity. 

Strangest,  and  not  the  least  in- 
teresting among  the  London  hostel- 
ries  of  our  day,  are  those  ancient 
palaces,  which,  having  survived  the 
wrecks  made  by  time,  have  outlived 
their  original  state,  and  now  open 
their  portals  for  the  throng  of  to- 
day to  take  the  places  once  held  by 
the  men  and  women  of  the  past  It  • 
is  especially  in  that  historical 
quarter  of  London  known  as 
Bishopsgate,  that  wo  find  the  most 
remarkable  samples  of  these  ancient 
buildings  which  are  yet  but  modern 
hostelries.  Till  lately  it  was  Ger- 
rard's  Hall  which  was  the  more 
prominent  example  of  the  convert 
sion  of  the  old  palace  into  the 
modern  tavern. 

Gerrard's  Hall  in  Basingham 
could  hardly  be  called  a  modem 
hostelry,  however,  for  in  the  time  of 
Stow  it  had  been  converted  to  that 
use,  and  until  very  recently  the  fine 
old  place  with  its  ball-room,  its  beds 
for  seventy-eight  guests,  its  antique 
chambers,  and  its  fine  Norman  crypt, 
were  among  the  sights  of  London. 

It  was  in  1245  that  John  Gisors, 
Mayor  of  London,  lived  in  this  old 
city  palace,  so  that  we  should  have 
to  go  back  far  in  English  history  to 
write  the  story  of  the  venerable 
house.  A  romance,  such  as  Bulwer 
has  given  us,  might  be  made  from 
the  records  of  the  men  who  fre- 
quented that  palace  built  on  the 
land  that  bore  the  name  of  the 
great  family  of  Basing  at  a  time 
when  the  City  traders  had  already 
begun  to  achieve,  by  their  wealth 
and  industry,  an  influence  that  was 
not  fully  asserted  till  the  Wars  of 
the  Boses  had  ceased  and  the 
Seventh  Henry  constmcted  the 
fabric  for  which  the  ground  had 


been  cleared  by  the  destmction  of 
the  barons  and  the  feudal  chivalry. 
To  commimicate  the  names  of  the 
celebrated  men  who  frequented  a 
mansion,  the  history  of  which  b^;ins 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.,  while  its 
legendary  reputation  goes  back  into 
tradition,  would  require  a  separate 
article.     It  must  suffice  to  repeat 
the  words  of  the  chronicler  Stow, 
who  says:  'On  the  south  side  of 
Basingham  is  one  great  house  of  old 
time,  built  upon  arched  vaults,  and 
with  arched  gates  of  stone,  brought 
from  Caen  in  Normandy.  The  same 
is  now  a  common  hostelry  for  receipt 
of  travellers,  commonly  and   cor- 
rnptly  called  Gerrard's  Hall,  of  a 
giant  said  to  have  dwelt  there.    In 
tho  high-roofed  hall  of  this  house 
sometime  stood  a  large  fir-pole  which 
reached  to  the  roof  thereof,  and  was 
said  to  be  ono  of  the  staves  that 
Gerrard  the  giant  used  in  the  wars 
to  ran  withaJ.    There  stood  also  a 
ladder  of  the  same  length,  which  (as 
they  say)  seemed  to  ascend  to  the 
top  of  the  staff.    Of  late  years  this 
hall  is  altered  and  divers  rooms  are 
made  in  it.     Notwithstanding  the 
pole  is  removed  to  one  comer  of  the 
hall,  and  the  ladder  hanged  broken 
upon  a  wall   in  the    yard.      The 
hosteler  of  that  house  said  to  me, 
*'  The  pole  lacketh  half  a  foot  of 
forty  in  length:"   I  measured  the 
compass  thereof  and  found  it  fifteen 
inches.    Keasons  of  the  pole  could 
the  master  of  the  hostelry  give  me 
none ;  but  bade  me  read  the  great 
Chronicles,  for  there  he  heard  of  it 
I  will  now  note  what  myself  hath 
observed  concerning  that  house.    I 
read  that  John   Gisors,  Mayor  of 
London    in   the    year    1245,    ''^as 
owner  thereof,  and  that  Sir  John 
Gisors,  Constable  of  the  Tower  1311, 
and  divers  others  of  that  name  and 
family  since  that  time,  owned  it    So 
it  appeareth  that  this  Gisors'  Hall 
of  late  time  by    corruption    hath 
l>een  called  Gerrard*s  Hall  for  Gisors' 
Hall.    The  pole  in  the  hall  might 
be  used  of  old  time  (as  then  the 
custom  was  in  every  parish)  to  be 
set  up  in  the  summer  as  a  maypole. 
The  ladder  served  for  the  decking  of 
the  maypole  and  roof  of  the  hall.' 

Chamberlain  in    his   history   of 
London  follows  Stow,  and  recounts 


AneietU  Ho9lelrt€$y  and  the  Men  who  Frequented  them.  81 


tbat  'the  labnlotiB  tradiiioDS  swal- 
lowed by  onr  credtilonB  ancestoiB' 
niade  Gerrard  a  giant  whose  'skull 
being  found  woald  hold  five  peoks ; 
and  his  thigh  bone  was  six  feet  long, 
imd  one  of  his  teeth  weighed  ten 
pounds  tioy:  without  considering 
that  a  person  of  such  prodigious 
dimensions  could  not  possibly  in- 
habit a  house  or  hall  of  the  size  this 
appears  to  have  been  by  its  remains, 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the 
arched  vaults,  supported  by  sixteen 
pillars  built  of  stone  brought  from 
Caen  in  Normandy^  and  are  now 
used  for  cellars,  being  oitiiely  under 
the  floor  of  the  building.' 

Qiflors',  or  as  it  was  still  called, 
Gerrard's  Hall,  has  only  lately  dis- 
appeared, however.  Theyery  site 
will  soon  be  uncertain,  and  no 
modem  hostelry  marks  the  place' 
where  it  formerly  stood. 

Another  queerold  mansion,  patched 
and  preserved  in  a  shabby  sem- 
blance to  its  original  quaini  plas- 
tered frontal  and  unequal  gables,  is 
now  an  ordinary  tavern,  known  as 
the  Sir  Paul  Pindar,  in  Bishops- 
gate.  The  house  was,  in  fact,  the 
residence  of  the  noted  km'ght  whose 
name  it  still  bears;  and  though 
these  are  few  internal  relics  of  the 
state  he  once  held  there,  the  edifice 
itself  is  still  something  of  an  ex- 
ample of  the  old  civic  mansion  of 
the  fifteenth  or  sixteenth  century. 
Sir  Paul  Pindar,  who  was  bom  at 
Wellingborough,  in  Northampton- 
shire, in  1566,  received  the  educa- 
tion of  a  gentleman  of  those  times; 
but  having  discovered  a  remarkable 
desire  to  follow  commercial  pur- 
suits, he  was  apprenticed  to  an 
Italian  merchant  in  the  City,  named 
Parrish,  by  whom  he  was  employed 
as  an  agent  in  Venice,  then  the 
great  mart  of  the  world.  For 
several  years  he  lived  in  the  Levant 
and  other  places  abroad  until,  on 
his  coming  to  England  in  16 11,  his 
great  skill  as  a  linguist  induced  the 
company  of  merchants  to  the  Le- 
vant to  recommend  him  to  King 
James  as  ambassador  to  the.  Grand 
Seigneur.  In  that  office  he  re- 
mained nine  years,  to  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  English  interests,  and 
probably  to  his  own,  for  when  he  came 
home  he  brought  with  him  a  for- 


tune comprised  in  a  single  diamond 
valued  at  30,00c/.  It  may  easily  he- 
supposed  that  the  eyes  of  the  British 
Solomon  were  dazzled  by  such  a- 
jewel,  and  that  he  coveted  it  as 
much  as  was  at  all  consistent  with 
his  reputation  for  wisdom  and  vir- 
tue; but  Pindar  was  implacable, 
and  would  only  ccmsent  to  lend  the 
'bonnie  sparkler'  upon  state  occa- 
sions. The  femous  jewel  and  its 
owner  survived  King  James,  and 
the  latter  was  equally  desired  by 
his  successor  Charles  L,  who  at  lasi 
contrived  to  purchase  it,  though  it 
is  said  that  it  was  afterwards  i)awned 
to  the  Queen  of  Bohemia  during 
the  civil  troubles.  Meanwhile  Sir 
Paul,  who  had  refased  the  post  of 
Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  preferred 
the  more  solid  advantage  to  be 
derived  as  one  of  the  farmers  of  the 
Customs,  in  which  capacity  he  ad- 
vanced large  sums  to  the  Crown, 
obtaining  in  return  a  great  exten- 
sion of  the  privileges  of  the  City. 
He  was  afterwards  able  to  provide 
money  for  the  safe  conduct  of  the 
unfortunate  queen  and  her  children ; 
and  indeed  he  seems  to  have  been 
wonderfully  sagacious  in  his  specu- 
lations not  only  for  himself  but  for 
the  state.  The  nmnufacture  of 
alum,  which  had  been  introduced  at 
Whitby  by  an  Italian,  was  taken  up 
by  him  in  such  a  way  as  to  secure 
it  for  a  monopoly  to  the  Crown, 
which  lasted  till  1643.  At  length, 
however,  the  knight's  affairs  became 
so  embarrassed  by  the  troublous 
events  of  the  kingdom  that  at  his 
death  the  executors  found  them- 
selves unable  to  extricate  them,  and 
one  of  them  (William  Toomes)  who 
had  been  nominated  to  fulfil  his 
testamentary  intentions  found  the 
task  so  hopeless  that  he  evaded  it 
by  committing  suicide.  The  parish 
books  of  St  Botolph,  Blshopsgate, 
contain  numerous  entries  of  the 
worthy  knight's  liberality  in  sub- 
scribing  for  communion-plate,  money 
for  the  poor,  and  venison  for  feast- 
ing the  parochial  magnates.  One 
of  the  entries  is, '  Given  to  Sir  Paul's 
cooke,  who  brought  the  pastie, 
25.  6^.'  Another  account  refers  to 
the  feast  for  which  the  knight  sent 
the  venison,  and  amounts  to  195.  6d, 
for  'floure,  butter,  pepper,  ^ges,. 


82 


Ancient  Hostelries,  and  the  Men  who  Frequented  titem. 


makiog,  and  baking.'  There  is  also 
an  entry  of  2I,  paid  by  Sir  Panl  for 
license  to  eat  flesh  on  fish  days; 
and  the  last  reference  to  the  worthy 
knight  is  in  1650,  when  168.  was 
paid  to  the  glazier  for  mending  the 
windows  broken  at  his  funeral.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  imagine  the 
present  decayed  building,  which  is 
«11  that  remains  of  the  knight's 
mansion,  the  house  to  which  a  pork 
«nd  garden  were  once  attached; 
but  tibere  are  changes  almost  as 
strange  in  other  parts  of  this  great 
•city. 

Not,  however,  in  that  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  the  old  London  palaces, 
€ro8by  Hall.  Since  the  days  when 
the  great  building  and  its  court- 
yard covered  nearly  the  whole  site 
of  Crosby  Square,  where  it  was 
built  by  Sir  John  Crosby  on  land 
leased  from  the  ancient  convent 
of  St.  Helen's;  the  neighbourhood 
has  altered,  but  the  great  banquet- 
ing hall,  with  its  glorious  oak  roof, 
its  charming  bay-window,  and  its 
fine  proportions,  is  still  much  as  it 
was  in  the  days  when  the  wily 
and  unpitying  Duke  of  Gloucester 
schemed  for  the  crown  in  the  apart- 
ments of  the  palace  which  he  had 
then  made  his  residence.  There  is 
no  need  to  go  at  length  into  the 


history  of  this  fine  old  place,  still 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  examples 
of  domestic  Gothic  architecture  to 
be  seen  in  Europe ;  while  a  record 
of  its  frequenters  would  include 
some  of  the  greatest  names  in  the 
most  brilliant  history  of  our  country. 
A  very  full  account  of  the  ancient 
City  palace,  its  occupiers  and  visit- 
ors, nas  been  published  by  the 
present  proprietor,  who,  with  a 
worthy  regard  for  all  that  is  noble 
in  its  history,  has  preserved  and  re- 
stored it  with  only  such  few  altera- 
tions as  have  also  restored  to  its 
original  purpose  the  great  banquet- 
ting  hall ;  so  that  City  clerks  and 
merchants,  as  well  as  visitors  from 
all  parts  of  London,  find  in  the  vene- 
rable building  the  comforts  and 
conveniences  of  a  modem  dining- 
room,  where  economy  and  luxury 
go  hand  in  hand,  and  the  wines  of 
France  and  Germany  are  restored 
to  the  representatives  of  the  men 
who  drank  their  Clary  and  hippo- 
eras,  BJB  well  as  the  beer  that  has 
ever  since  been  regarded  as  the 
drink  of  Britain.  There  is  in  Lon- 
don no  more  striking  example  of  a 
rightly- directed  enterprise  than  that 
conversion  of  the  ancient  City  palace 
to  the  purposes  of  the  modem 
hostelry. 


^^^"^^^^y^ 


88 


PUBLIC  SCHOOL  TYPES. 


ME.  BUCKLE  in  his  'History  of 
Ciyilization'  ventnies  some- 
lehere  or  other  to  start  the  qnestion 
what  modifications  the  Engluh  cha- 
racter might  possibly  undergo,  if,  in- 
stead of  being  a  people  addicted  to 
the  consumption  of  beer  and  other 
equally  heayy  beyeiages,  we  were  to 
emulate  the  continental  example, 
and  adhere  to  light  olazet  and  the 
wines  that  are  natiTO  to  the  banks 
of  the  Bhine.  Should  we  be 
straightway  metamorphosed  into  a 
nation  Tolatile  and  lighthearted 
even  as  our  lively  neighbour  the 
Gaul?  Would  all  traces  of  our 
insular  phlegmatism  disappear? 
Should  we  become  the  inheritors 
of  natures  so  mobile  and  facile  as 
to  renounce  the  Conseryatism  which 
in  some  shape  or  other  is  one  of  our 
iuTariable  ijopular  characteristics? 
Should  we,  in  fact,  be  a  race  of  men 
wholly  diffarent  from  what  we  at 
present  are?  The  solution  of  the 
problem  is  difficult  enough,  seeing 
thaty  amongst  other  things  necessary 
to  be  demonstrated  before  we  could 
be  sure  of  realizing  the  conditions 
essential  to  the  case,  is  the  point 
whether  it  would  be  possible  in  this 
mvskv  climate  of  ours  for  the  bulk 
of  the  people,  the  toiling  masses, 
whose  labour  is  intellectual  as  well 
as  physical,  to  support  themselves 
on  the  airy  fluids  which  we  have 
mentioned  in  lien  of  the  national 
heavy  wet 

A  more  pertinent  inquiry  for  our 
present  purpose  is  what  would  be 
the  difimence  felt  in  the  develop- 
ment of  our  national  manhood  if  we 
were  to  sweep  off  from  the  face  of 
the  earth  all  trace  of  such  institu- 
tions as  our  public  schools  and  uni- 
versities ?  How  fax  can  the  count- 
less influences  of  these,  and  especially 
the  former,  be  said  to  be  indis- 
solubly  interwoven  with  the  com- 

E Heated  network  of  our  popular 
fe?  The  well-known  saying  of  the 
Duke  of  WelliDgton  that  the  battle 
of  Wateiloo  was  won  upon  the 
playing-fields  of  Eton  has  been  re- 
pneated  so  often  that  we  are  almost 
sick  of  hearing  it.  But  after  all  it 
is  typical  of  a  great  truth,  sym- 
VOL.  XVL— HO.  xoi. 


bolical  of  a  mighty  fact  which  ad- 
mits of  no  trifling.  What  do  the 
mass  of  parents  'send  their  sons  to 
our  pubhc  schools  for?  How  is  it 
that  Eton  and  Harrow  are  fall  to 
overflowing — ^that  it  is  almost  as 
difficult  to  get  a  boy  into  either  of 
those  seminaries  as  to  procure  the 
entree  of  the  Carlton  or  Athenieum? 
It  is  not  that  the  mental  tndning 
which  either  of  these  seats  of  learn- 
ing administers  is  so  superlatively 
and  exceptionally  good.  On  tiie 
contrary,  with  the  amazing  strides 
which  national  education  is  making 
throughout  the  country,  a  dull  boy, 
or  one  only  moderately  clever— and 
to  one  of  these  two  classes  the  mass 
of  our  British  boys  belong— has 
far  better  chance  of  becoming  satu- 
rated with  a  modicum  of  knowledge 
at  some  of  those  centres  of  instruc- 
tion whose  rise  is  altogether  a  more 
modem  afi&iir.  Ninety  boys  out  of 
every  hundred,  it  is  scarcely  too 
much  to  assert,  are  despatched  duly 
to  these  great  seminaries  for  no 
other  purpose  than  that  they  may 
experience  to  the  full  the  benefit 
of  their  social  influences— that  their 
characters  may  be  strengthened  and 
developed  by  the  experiences  of  this 
little  world,  which  is,  after  all, 
merely  a  microcosm  of  the  great 
world  outside.  This  being  the  fiinc- 
tion  which  a  public  school  training  is 
calculated  and  desired  in  the  greater 
number  of  cases  to  perform,  the 
immense  force  which  these  homes 
of  education  must  possess  ppon  the 
moulding  of  the  characters  of  Eng- 
lishmen generally  is  a  self-evident 
&ci 

What  are  the  diflbrent  variations 
of  morale,  the  select  types  of  cha- 
racter, which  are  produced  under 
these  influences?  Or  is  it  to  be 
supposed  that  the  development  of 
the  public  school  boy  as  a  class  is 
tolerably  uniform,  no  matter  what 
the  particular  school  to  which  he 
may  hapx)en  to  belong— no  matter 
whether  he  hail  from  Eton  or  Hu> 
row,  Winchester  or  Westminster, 
or  from  foundations  infinitely  less 
venerable  and  celebrated?  As  an 
order,  doubtless,  all  public  school 

D 


84 


PtMie  Sekool  Tgpe$. 


boys  have  oeriun  broad  social 
featnies  in  oommon  lehioh  oon- 
clnsiTely  dijBfeientiate  them  from 
private  school  prodaota.  Bat  the 
gerxoB  admits  of  specific  snbdiyision, 
and  the  marks  of  sepaiation  yisible 
in  these  snbdiTisions  are  sufficiently 
easy  to  trace. 

'  Eton  gentlemen,  Harrow  backs, 
Westminster  scholars,  and  Win- 
chester blackgaards;'  this  is  the 
way  in  which  it  was  once  fashion- 
able, without  any  attempt  at  nicer 
distinctions  or  any  question  of  the 
justice  of  the  seyend  classifications, 
to  discriminate  between  the  pro- 
ducts of  the  fiimous  institations 
they  enumerated.  And  the  aphorism 
has  about  as  much  truth  m  it  as 
such  sayiogs  usually  hare.  It  is 
just  possible  to  conoeiTe  what  may 
have  originally  given  rise  to  this 
off-hand  nomenclature— merely  this, 
and  nothing  more.  We  must  at- 
tempt a  more  philosophical  system, 
and  look  at  matters  from  a  different 
point  of  view  and  with  a  minuter 
Tision.  When  could  we  have  a 
better  time  than  at  present  for  the 
<x)mpletion  of,  at  any  rate,  a  por- 
tion of  this  task-^when  a  more 
appropriate  moment  for  com- 
mencing our  investigation  of  the 
various  and  complex  phenomena  of 
public  school  character  than  now — 
now  when  the  ground  at  Lord*s  is 
crowded  with  the  whole  of  fashion- 
able London— when  what  is  pre- 
eminently the  public  school  match 
of  the  year  is  m  course  of  celebra- 
ticm,  and  for  two  days  at  least  the 
young  Etonian  or  Harrovian  is  indis- 
putably the  master  of  the  situation 
and  the  hero  of  the  hour?  Look 
at  them.  See  those  boys  of  ours, 
how  they  saunter  up  and  down  the 
ground,  threading  their  vray  in  and 
out  between  the  maze  of  carriages^ 
knowing  perfectly  well  that  tibey 
or  their  scnoolfellows  it  is  who  have 
been  instrumeotal  in  emptying  Bel- 
gravia  and  Mayfair  upon  Lord's 
ground  to-day,  yet,  infi^ring  from 
their  perfect  air  of  coolness  and 
imperturbable  stoicism  of  demean 
nour,  sublimely  unconscious  of  the . 
fact  The  society  of  the  great 
schools  and  of  the  great  world  out- 
side perpetually  act  and  react  upon 
each  other.     Qood  society  hates 


scenes,  rotes  every  eooentriciiy  of 
maimer  aod  demonstrativeness  of 
demeanour  bad  form:  the  schools 
have  followed  suit,  and  the  ideal 
of  deportment  which  an  Eton  or 
Harrow  boy  proposes  to  fafmself  is 
of  pure  paasionlsBS  exterior.  But 
'tis  ihe  old  story.  Expel  Natare 
with  a  pitchfork,  still  will  she 
assert  her  infiuence.  The  Etonian 
has  schooled  himself  into  ondemon- 
strativeness  persistently  and  well; 
but  the  ringmg  cheers  which  borst 
from  those  phalanges  of  boys  in  the 
dwk-blue  and  light-blue  ties  when- 
ever a  good  drive  fbr  four  is  made, 
or  a  clever  ball  bowled,  tell  us 
plainly  enough  that  the  dd  spirit 
IS  there  as  much  as  ever,  and  the 
enthusiasm,  if  greater,  is  only  sup- 
pressed with  purtial  success. 

No  wonder  that  England  is  proud 
of  these  her  public  school  boys:  no 
wonder  that  half  a  metropolis 
um'tes  to  applaud  to  the  echo  the 
athletic  prowess  of  these  young- 
sters: no  wonder,  too,  that  foreign 
potentates  and  princes  should  send 
their  sons  to  Eton  and  Harrow,  and 
when  th^  see  what  Eton  and  Har- 
row can  produce,  devoutly  say, 
'Cum  talis  sis  utinam  noster  esses.* 
If  these  lads  have  learned  some- 
thing of  that  self-containedness 
which  is  one  of  the  great  lessons  of 
life;  if, as  they  stroll  to  and  fro  over 
the  green  sward— we  will  call  it 
green,  if  you  please,  if  only  for  the 
poetiy  of  the  thing—independence 
and  insouciance  are  stamped  upon 
each  feature  of  their  coantenance, 
the  influence  of  their  respective 
schools  does  not  by  any  means  end 
here.  Pluck,  endurance,  honour, 
a  detestation  of  what  is  bad  style, 
and  a  horror  of  the  frizarre— these 
are  amongst  the  virtues  which  they 
have  learned,  and  which  leave  so 
visible  a  stamp  upon  their  features. 
Pretentious  sometimes,  conceited 
occasionally,  now  and  then  some- 
thing of  a  braggadocio,  your  public 
school  boy  may  be.  These,  how- 
ever, are  merely  transient  traits: 
time  and  the  world  will  tone  down 
much  of  them,  or  perhaps  cause 
them  to  disappear  altogether. 

It  may  possibly  seem  that  to  in- 
sist upon  the  existence  of  any  very 
perceptible  separate  characteristics 


PMio  School  J)fp68. 


8S 


in  the  Eton  and  tbe  Harrow  boy  is 
to  wse  a  diatiiMstion  which  is  not 
a  di&renoe.  Nerertheless,  these 
eharaotarisfcios  there  assuredly  are, 
even  though  it  may  require  some 
attentkm  to  be  aware  of  them. 
^Eton  genflemen  and  Haxrow 
bfuoks;'  and  the  phrase  in  a  rough 
way  hits  off  the  more  salient  points 
fiedrly  enough.  The  Eton  boy^ 
whatever  he  is,  good,  bad,  or  indif- 
ferent^ dull  or  clerer,  indolent  or 
industrious,  a 'wet  bob*  or  a  'diy 
bob,'  is  above  everything  the  gentle- 
man. Be  never  forgets  that  he  has 
a  reputation  to  maintain;  that  he 
has  the  traditions  oi  generations  to 
support;  and  that  the  lustze  of  the 
prestige  whidh  has  been  transmitted 
to  him  through  sueoesflive  seoula 
of  his  predeoeseors  must  be  handed 
down  m  its  natiye  purity  to  those 
who  may  come  afterwards.  Intense 
Oonservatism  is  an  ever-present 
feature  in  the  young  Etonian.  Tbe 
antiquity  of  the  place,  the  Tenerable 
asBociatiansof  whiohit  ut  theoentre, 
the  memory  of  the  illustrious  per- 
sonages who  have  been  imbued 
with  tiie  elements  of  humanity  and 
culture  cm.  the  banks  of  the  Thames 
— all  these  have  exercised  uponbim, 
nnoonsoionsly  yery  likely,  precisely 
thai  degree  and  kind  of  moral 
infiuenoe  wMoh  might  have  been 
ezpeeted.  Eton,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, has  a  lai^  number  of  cue* 
toms  peeuliar  to  itself,  a  greater 
quantity  of  stock  phrases  fiym« 
bolioal  of  corresponding  practices, 
and  withal  a  vaster  fund  of  reve- 
rence to  these  than  any  other 
pnblks  school  in  the  world.  Even 
an  Eton  master,  however  ayerse 
to  the  institution,  for  certain 
reasons  oonneeted  with  its  ope- 
rative efBaets,  he  might  be,  would 
not  have  it  in  his  heart  to  interfere 
with  the  time-honoured  usages  of 
« the  long  glass' and 'tap.'  There 
18  nothi^  surprising,  therefore,  if 
these  aodHlentB  of  usage,  with  the 
respect  that  they  elicit  and  the  ob- 
servaaoe  ihsj  demand,  have  eier- 
eised  an  inflnenoe,not  merely  limited 
to  the  place  in  which  they  exist, 
saered  and  inviolable,  and  have 
produeed  a  ihone  of  mind  which  the 
£ton  hoy  canies  home  with  him  firom 
school  fag  the  holiday,and  a  species 


of  moral  attitude  which  he  at  once 
oooupies  towards  the  outride  world. 
The  merit  of  an  ordinance  consists 
in  its  age;  that  is  the  principle 
which  has  been  impressed  upon 
him  by  the  training  of  his  school 
Hfe:  that  is  one  of  the  great  results 
obtained  firom  the  sodaTand  educa- 
tional conditions  to  which  he  has 
been  submitted.  Now  there  is  little 
or  nothing  of  this  vein  of  sentiment 
in  the  Harrow  boy.  The  history  of 
the  school  which  the  pious  yeoman 
founded  is  indeed  reputable,  even 
glorious:  but  its  past  is  not  the 
past  whose  memorias  wreathe  them- 
selves around  the  venerable  motto 
FhrecUEtona.  Theatmoq»hereof  the 
place  is  different  Byren's  oak  still 
flourishes  in  the  Harrow  church- 
yard :  but  this,  and  muoh  else  like 
this,  is  of  yesterday.  There  is  none 
of  that  perpetuation  of  ancient 
events  in  modem  celebration  which 
at  Eton  is  everything.  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli, whose  insight  into  our  social 
life  is  as  keen  as  it  could  well  be, 
has  precisely  hit  off  this  side  of 
Etonian  existence  in  the  conversa* 
tions  he  has  recorded  between  his 
schoolboys  in '  Coningsby.' 

There  is  indeed  at  Harrow  and  in 
the  products  which  bear  the  im- 
primatur of  sturdy  John  Lyle's 
school,  a  something  which  reminds 
one  of  Talleyrand's  remark  when  he 
stepped  into  the  brougham  of  a 
friend  to  whom  that  vehicle  was  a 
very  recent  acquisition,  II  sent  de 
net^.  The  Hanovian  will,  indeed, 
refer  to  the  roll-lists  of  his  school, 
and  then  give  the  names  of  titled 
magnates  and  territorial  magnates 
galore.  It  matters  not  Eton  ever 
has  been  the  school  of  England, 
and  so  long  as  such  institutions 
continue  to  exist,  ever  will  be. 
When  the  Middlesex  Seminary  was 
an  obsenre  establishment,  the  shades 
of  pious  Henry  had  achieved  a 
European  reputation.  Harrow  has 
gained  her  distmotion  rather  firom 
her  popularity  with  the  aristoeracy 
of  wealth  than  the  aristocracy  of 
birth.  With  Eton  it  has  been  ex- 
actly the  reverse.  'Eton  gentie- 
men  and  Harrow  bucks :'  the  expre»- 
sion  is  perfectiy  correct,  and  tends 
to  an  undeniable  truth.  Dandyism, 
in  the  majority  of  cases,  is  the  cha- 
D  a 


PubUc  Sbftool  Tfipe$. 


xaotenBtio  of  the  nouveaux  riches: 
it  is  the  attempt  to  rapply  by  art 
what  has  been  denied  by  nature. 
Dandyism,  or,  if  ve  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  bnckism,  is  not  con- 
fined to  the  mere  wearing  of  clothes. 
It  is  visible  in  the  manners  of  the 
man,  as  well  as  originated  in  the 
shop  of  the  tailor.  A  oonscioosness 
of  weakness  prompts  its  manifesta- 
tion. If  we  may  be  allowed  to  ayail 
onrselves  of  a  somewhat  cockney 
metaphor,  the  difference  that  exists 
between  Eton  and  Harrow  is  much 
that  which  is  to  be  fonnd  between 
Mayfair  and  BelgraTia.  We  take 
them  each  as  they  are:  we  like 
them  both:  and  after  all,  as  we 
have  above  hinted,  to  the  mass  of 
spectators  the  Etonian  and  Ear- 
roTian  may  appear  in  identical  de- 
Telopment  Even  here  we  have  but 
been  able  to  assign  to  each  traits 
which  are  scarcely  apparent  to  the 
superficial  gaze.  Stiil,  let  the  in- 
telligent reader  at  this  period,  when 
both  types  of  schoolboys  are  in 
town,  ask  one  or  two  of  each  to 
dinner;  and  he  will  add  his  testi- 
mony to  the  justice  of  oar  remarks. 
He  wiU  see  that  there  is  something 
of  the  old  style  in  the  Eton  boy 
that  the  Harrow  has  not,  and  will 
note  the  presence  of  a  certain  je  ne 
sais  quoi  air,  a  subtle  essence,  which 
defies  definition:  an  indescribable 
air  of  finish  whicn,  as  it  is  eminently 
Etonian  both  in  its  birth  and  its 
development,  so,  too,  is  conspicuous 
in  the  Harrovian  only  by  its  ab- 
sence. 

What  is  a  public  school?  We 
have  completely  outgrown  the  an- 
cient answer  which  informed  us 
that  there  were  five  institutions,  and 
five  only,  to  which  the  term  was 
appL'cable.  Judged  according  to 
that  dictum,  we  should  exclude  from 
the  categoiy  Bugby,  Marlborough, 
Cheltenham,  and  a  host  of  those 
other  seminaries  whose  size  and 
importance  rival  if  they  do  not 
surpass  that  of  Westminster,  Win- 
chester, and  Charterhouse.  For  our 
present  purpose  we  must  prefer  the 
newer  K)undations  to  tne  older. 
The  Charterhouse  boy  is  not  a  type 
at  all,  and  much  the  same  may  be 
said  of  '  the  Westminster  scholar.' 
Nor  is  the  reason  fuc  to  seek.    The 


purity,  nay,  the  vei7jperM)ne2Z0  of  aoy 
school  is  preserved  exactly  in  pro- 
portion as  the  number  of  boaraers 
preponderate  over  the  number  of 
day  scholars.  National  chancier, 
we  are  told,  is  but  the  result  of  a 
continued  identity  of  social  con- 
ditions. If  that  identity  is  weakened 
in  degree  or  abbreviated  in  dura- 
tion,  the  result  is  that  the  national 
character  at  once  becomes  less 
strongly  defined.  In  the  case  of 
schools  we  can  only  have  this  con- 
tinuity when  the  day  scholars  are  in 
a  minoritv,  and  that  minority  a  veiy 
considerable  ona  If  you  (mod  in- 
troduce a  heterogeneous  element  in 
the  shape  of  a  body  of  boys  whose 
school  hfe  is  perpetually  interrupted 
by  life  elsewhere^  the  result  is  that 
the  whole  spirit  and  the  entire 
Renins  of  the  thing  are  lamentably 
destioyed.  Ton  fiiil  to  produce  a 
distinct  and  separate  type:  yon 
have  a  monjirel  and  an  amalgam. 
Schoolboy  li&,  to  have  its  full  in> 
fiuence,  necessarily  involves  the 
idea  of  a  considerable  quantity  of 
boys  passing  their  time  together. 
And  if  this  condition  is  essential 
for  the  realization  of  the  type,  it  is 
also  essential  for  the  preservation 
of  anything  like  school  discipline. 
When  the  parental  inclination  per- 
petually clashes  with  the  magisterial 
authority ;  when  the  father  and  the 
pedagogue  are  brought  into  ccxn- 
petition;  and  when  the  boy  feels 
that  he  can  appeal  from  the  one  to 
the  other,  farewell,  not  only  to  the 
production  of  a  distinct  class  of 
schoolboy,  but  to  the  validity  of 
all  wholesome  discipline.  West- 
minster and  Charterhouse  have  both 
suffered  in  the  highest  degree  from 
this  confusion  of  elements.  The 
Eton  boy  is  a  distinct  type,  so  is  the 
Harrow:  possibly  even  the  Winr 
Chester:  even  about  tiie  youngster 
who  haOs  from  the  home  which 
learning  has  beneath  the  shades  of 
the  venerable  abbey,  there  stOl 
linger  some  few  traces  of  indivi- 
duality: but  as  for  your  alumnus 
of  Charterhouse,  the  whole  case  is 
different 

It  is  scarcely  to  be  denied  that 
both  Westminster  and  Charterhouse 
have  to  pay  a  heavy  price  for  their 
central  sites  and  their  metropolitan 


PMie  School  Types. 


87 


liomos.  A  Bcbool  ought  to  be  le- 
xnoved  as  far  as  poeaible  beyond  the 
Teach  of  their  inflnenoe.  It  ought 
io  be  self-contained:  if  it  is  desired 
to  develop  a  separate  and  distinct 
phase  of  character  it  mnst  be  self- 
contained;  and  it  ouffht,  socially 
speaking,  to  be  acted  npon  by 
external  force  only  in  an  in- 
finitesimal degree.  The  neigh- 
bourhood of  Westminster  and 
Oharterhonse  mnst  inevitably  tell 
heavily  against  them.  Eton  and 
BftTTow  look  for  their  models  within 
iheir  own  academical  walls:  the 
schoolboy  whose  school  is  merely  a 
fichool  in  a  town,  and  not  the  in- 
Btitntion  of  the  place,  naturally 
takes  his  cue  from  the  more  im- 
posing examples  of  exoteric  exist- 
'Onoa  To  say  that  a  schoolboy  uses 
slang,  and  that  he  is  slangy,  is  to 
flay  two  very  difBarant  things.  The 
former  may  be  true  of  Eton  and  of 
Harrow,  the  latter  certainly  is  not 
Herein,  as  in  a  nutshell,  is  to  be 
found  the  great  distinction  between 
the  two  large  classes  of  our  public 
school  boys.  Those  frequent  expe- 
ditions to  the  questionable  resorts 
in  the  vicinil^,  the  experience  which 
has  been  picked  up  in  places  where 
'  life'  (ota  certain  kind)  is  to  be 
seen,  are  not  &vourable  to  the 
agreeable  development  of  the  school- 
boy character.  Tor  the  proper  ap- 
Slication  of  these  remarks  to  the 
isciple  of  Westminster  and  Char- 
terhoQse  the  works  of  Mr.  Thackeray 
may  be  consulted  passim. 

Let  us  look  at  the  young  Bug- 
bean— quite  a  different  specimen 
from  any  of  those  which  we  have  al- 
jready  contemplated.  He  is  a  stout- 
hearted, brave  young  Englishman 
enough — and  when  we  have  said 
that,  we  bave  said  all.  Dr.  Arnold 
we  reverence  as  much  as  any  man 
living :  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should 
utter  any  words  save  those  of  the 
profoundest  respect  touching  his 
memory;  but  ut.  Arnold  is  one 
thing  and  Arnold  and  Water  is 
another.  This  is  the  title  which 
Arnold's  Cambridge  scholars  earned 
at  the  time:  it  is  a  title,  their  right 
to  which  Bugby  boys,  as  a  body, 
Jhave  since  done  little  to  disprove. 
With  the  enervating  waters  of  their 
own  assxmiption  they  have  diluted 


the  flavour  of  their  exemplar,  till 
they  have  almost  extinguished  the 
latter,  and  we  can  mionly  discri* 
minate  the  former.  Ccrruptiooptimi 
pessima  fit :  and  we  may  be  sure 
that  this  saying  would  in  a  very 
singular  degree  hold  true  in  the 
case  of  Bugby's  great  head  master. 
The  real  racfc  is,  that  the  present 
generation  of  Bugby  boys  considerB 
itself  entitled  to  live  on  the  repu- 
tation of  the  past;  that  the  SBgis  of 
Arnold's  name  sheds  over  them  a 
certain  glow  of  in&llibility;  and  that 
for  this  reason  they  possess  a  kind 
of  moral  superiority  over  the  rest 
of  the  world.  BecQgnition  of  the 
nobility  of  manly  strength  has 
become  with  them  a  species  of 
objectionable  cant  Conceit,  a  wan- 
ton air  of  independence,  a  mon- 
strous egotism,  an  unpleasantly 
patent  self-consdouaness^-these  are 
among  the  social  attributes  of  your 
Bugby  boy.  Is  that  what  Arnold 
wished? 

If  the  Etonian  and  Harrovian  are 
pre-eminently  the  polished  stones, 
the  edition  de  luxe^  hot -pressed, 
cream-papered,  and  gilt-edged,  of 
public  school  life,  the  Wykehamist 
IS  as  pre-eminentiy  the  rough  dia- 
mond, and  the  rude  copy.  About 
him  there  is  nothing  of  that  studied 
regard  of  the  amenities  of  existence 
which  make  either  of  the  others  so 
socially  pleasant  The  Eton  and 
the  Harrow  boy  whom  we  see  at 
Lord's  ]&  indeed  a  hoy,  but  we  feel 
that  the  lad  is  a  gentleman,  and 
we  treat  him  as  such.  On  the  other 
hand,  young  Winchester  impresses 
us  afi  a  '  cub.'  We  have  no  wish  to 
be  otherwise  than  rigidly  impartial 
in  this  classification  of  ours.  We 
are  wholly  unprejudiced.  The  point 
of  view  which  we  take  is  com- 
pletely that  of  the  outsider,  and  we 
speak  not  of  special  and  exceptional 
instances,  but  merely  of  those  cases 
which  may  be  supposed  roughly  to 
constitute  the  rule. 

Marlborough  is  an  excellent 
school.  If  you  want  your  son  to 
get  on,  to  be  certain  of  a  scholar- 
ship at  Oxford,  to  acquire  a  power 
of  interminable  quotation  of  autho- 
rities at  lecture,  send  him  to  the 
Wiltshire  seminary.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  wish  to  give  him  a  good 


88 


I>ofm  DdU. 


social  tniniog,  to  see  him  aoqniie 
a  pleanng  addroBS,  to  gain  the  xe- 
patation  of  a  pleasant  friend  and 
an  agreeable  companion,  despatch 
him  elsewhere.  All  the  &alts  which 
Bngby  possenes  Marlborongh  has 
magnified  teofold.  But  the  xeaaon 
is  simple  enough.  Marlborough 
has  caixied  all  her  notions  of  in- 
ternal administration  from  the  pio- 
tofypes  of  the  Warwickshire  schooL 
In  the  first  instance,  all  her  best 
masters  came  thence,  and  the  only 
pablio  school  of  which  th^  knew 
anything  was  Bngby.  The  acade- 
mical achievements  of  Marlborongh 
have  been  something  marvellous, 
and  speak  volumes  to  the  industry 
of  her  masters,  and  the  aptitude  <^ 


her  pupils.  Her  tnompfas  in  the 
cricket-field  have  not  oean  con- 
temptible. But  these  meisnieshaive 
not  had  the  effiaet  of  mflitating 
against  the  entire  applicafaility  of 
anything  we  have  said  or  could  say 
apropos  of  the  social  chaiaotedatics 
of  the  Marlburian,  pasi^  psesent, 
or  future.  The  boy  is  a  good 
classic  and  a  capital  criokBter ;  but 
ask  him  to  dine,  and  he  will  bore 
you  to  death  with  his  ridiculonsly 
doxosphistical  airs  in  about  ten  mi- 
nutes. Perhaps  after  all  this  is 
merely  natural  Marlborough  is  a 
very  young  school,  and  its  prosperity 
is  precocious,  and  its  piecooi^  is 
unfortunate  in  its  lesuUs. 


DOVE  DALE- 


IN  many  points  of  view  Derby- 
shire is  an  excellent  region  for 
travel  or  soioum  in  the  Long  Vaca- 
tion. It  IS  very  accessible  from 
town;  the  whole  of  it  lies  within 
a  manageable  compass;  it  boasts  of 
some  of  the  most  celebrated  land- 
scapes in  English  scenery;  it  con- 
tains some  of  the  most  famous 
palaces  of  our  nobility;  it  has  dis- 
tricts crowded  with  a  manu&cturing 
population,  and  secluded  vales  that 
have  hardly  altered  since  the  time 
of  the  Stufurts.  If  you  go  to  Wales, 
or  the  western  counti^^  of  Devon 
and  Gomwall,  or  the  Rhine,  or  Swit- 
zerland, it  is  scarcely  possible  that 
you  can  work  the  map  exhaustively, 
and  there  is  always  some  critical 
prig  who  will  authoritatively  assure 
you  that  you  have  missed  the  par- 
ticular places  which,  beyond  all 
others,  you  ought  to  have  seen. 
But  if  you  go  to  Derbyshire  at  all, 
it  is  worth  while  to  do  it  thoroughly ; 
and  you  may  do  it  thoroughly  within 
the  limits  of  a  moderate  furlough. 
Derbyshire  is  called  a  Midland 
county,  but  in  reality,  in  character 
and  climate,  it  rather  belongs  to  the 
cluster  of  northern  counties.  Ton 
will  see  no  district  so  pretty  until, 
a  hundred  miles  further  on,  you 
come  to  the  Lake  country.  As  soon 
as  you  have  cleared  out  of  the  huge 


station  at  Derby,  you  perceive  how 
greatly  the  character  of  the  scenery 
has  changed  for  the  better.  Toa 
have  left  the  wide  expanse  of  dull 
flat  country  behind  you,  and  now 
you  catch  glimpses  of  rocks  and 
rivers,  mountains  and  dales— pio* 
turesque  bits  that  suggest  idylls  in 
themselves;  then  ancm  tall  chim- 
neys and  the  illumination  of  furnace 
fires.  At  Ambergate,  the  line  to 
Matlock  and  Buxton,  and  thence  to 
Manchester,  branches  o£f ;  and  if  you 
would  do  Derbyshire  thoroughly, 
you  must  grow  very  familiar  wiUi 
this  line  of  ndlway^-the  prettiest 
line  that  the  whole  railway  map  of 
England  can  display.  I  happily 
knew  the  district  in  old  days,  before 
it  was  polluted  with  the  amount  of 
pollution  which  even  the  prettiest 
fine  unavoidably  brings  with  it 
Chesterfield  is  a  convenient  staticm 
for  head-quarters  for  some  days. 
The  crooked  spire  is  a  fiuniliar 
object  to  travellers  to  the  north; 
concerning  which  spire  there  is  an 
ingenious  theory,  that  it  is  not  a 
crooked  spire  at  all,  but  that  the 
crookedness  is  an  optical  delusion. 
A  dull  and  stationary  town  is  Ches- 
terfield—perhaps the  dullest  and 
most  stationary  in  Englsmd ;  but  it 
is  surrounded  by  a  network  of 
villages— Brampton,    Biimington, 


DaoeDdh* 


dr 


Whittmgton,  Staveley,  &c,  where 
there  is  an  increasing  population. 
Staveley  has  lately  made  itself  fiunons 
for  its  resistance  to  Unionist  tyranny 
— presenting  a  angular  admixture 
of  glimpses  of  wild  sylyan  beauty^ 
with  the  usual  sordid  phenomena 
that  belong  to  a  region  of  coal-pits 
and  iron-pits.  Now,  let  me  reckon 
up  the  Derbyshire  sights  which  you 
can '  do '  from  Chesterfield.  There 
is  Bolaoyer  Castle,  which  you  may 
take  on  your  way  to  Hardwick  HalL 
Yon  wiU  not  see  a  more  thoroughly 
English  park,  so  well  timbered  with 
gnarled  and  giant  oaks,  in  all  the 
country,  tiian  Hardwick  Pack;  and 
the  stciely  oldivied  hall  has  as  noble 
a  site  as  the  Great  Keep  of  Wind- 
sor itself.  The  lord  of  HaidwidL  is 
the  Duke  of  Dofonahiie;  and  yoa 
hare  not  been  long  in  Derbysfaire 
before  yoa  disoorer  that  the  Duke 
of  DeyoBshire  is  the  king  of  the 
country.  Other  dokes  there  are 
who  have  diikeries  here,  as  Bol- 
Bover  Castle,  bekmgiDg  to  the  Duke 
of  Portiand,  and  Haddon  HaU,  be- 
longing to  the  Duke  of  Bntland; 
but  his  grace  of  Devonshire,  who  in 
Devonshire  does  not  own,  I  believe, 
an  acre,  is  the  lord  of  many  a  wide 
£ur  prospect  in  Derbyshir&  The 
last  reigning  duke  might  have  been 
Bumamed  the  Magnificent;  he  had 
hundreds  of  thousands  a  year,  and 
died  hundreds*(^  thousands  in  debt 
The  present  dukei,  although  little 
known  to  fiuue,  is  considered  by 
mai^  people  to  be  the  cleverest 
man  in  England.  He  was  Senior 
Wrangler,  or  something  of  that 
kind,  at  QEunbridge,  and  was  chosen 
to  succeed  the  late  Prinoe  Consort 
as  Chanoell(»r  of  the  University. 
When  he  was  complimented  on  his 
degree,  he  answered  that  no  par- 
ticular credit  was  due  to  him,  as  he 
had  only  given  some  attention  to 
studies  to  which  he  had  been  always 
partial  I  The  duke  inherits  both 
the  genius  and  the  blood  of  the 
philosopher  Cavendish. 

From  Chesterfield  it  is  quite  a 
manageable  walk  to  Chatsworth. 
Chatsworth  is  almost  the  imperial 
realization  of  a  splendid  dream. 
The  old  duke  used  to  delight  to 
look  from  his  private  windows  at 
the  great  crowds  that  used  to  come 


£K>m  our  industrial  centres  to  spend 
a  long-lived  summer  day  amid  the 
glories  of  his  domain.  The  river 
wmds  in  front  of  the  pi^aoe,  beneath 
a  fine  bridge,  through  the  lawn^tike 
park^  and  the  background  is  formed 
by  dense  woods  that  climb  the  hills 
and  close  the  horizon.  There  are 
the  huge  conservatories  through 
which  yon  might  drive  a  carriage 
and  pair,  which  suggested  to  Pax* 
ton,  the  Chatsworth  heaxl-gardener, 
the  idea  of  a  Crystid  Palace.  The 
Chatsworth  story  is,  that  the  future 
great  man,  when  a  poor  lad,  gained 
the  magnifioent  duke's  patronage 
by  some  adroitness  in  giving  him  a 
light  for  a  cigar.  The  gardens  are 
most  elaborately  beautifol,  and  the 
treasores  of  art  in  the  palace,  col- 
lected reckless  Gi  cost  by  a  most 
skilled  virtufm^  have  a  value  very 
rarely  surpassed;  yet,  after  all,  I 
think  most  persons  will  give  the 
preference  to  the  less  adorned  and 
more  natural  beauties  of  Hardwick. 
Haddon  Hall,  only  a  few  miles  from 
Chatsworth,  is  a  place  of  entirely 
of^Dosite^  and  even  antagonistic  a^ 
tEaotion&  It  has  been  l(»g  dis- 
mantled for  human  habitation,  ez- 
c^t  when  there  has  perchance  been 
BC«ne  festive  gathering  in  this  part 
of  the  shire,  when  once  more  there 
is  an  illumination  through  the 
ancient  windows,  and  levdiy  in  the 
corridors  and  halls.  But  the  ez- 
qnisiie  beauty  of  tl^  site  is  always 
fireshf  the  river  vrinding  in  more 
sinuous  folds  than  the  Asian  Ms^ 
ander;  the  old  stone  staircase,  the 
medifflval  court,  the  lonely  clttpel, 
the  echoing  gallery,  the  prinoely 
garden-terrace,  the  bidden  postern- 
door,  whence  the  lady,  heiress  of 
the  house,  stole  away  with  the 
lucky  page  £ar  away  over  the  Derby- 
shire hills.  Not  fiur,  also,  is  the 
pretfy  town  of  Bakewell,  where  you 
may  lounge  at  leisure  over  the 
bridge ;  and  if  you  are  staying  at 
the  Butland  Arms,  you  may  oUoin 
license  to  fish,  and  refresh  yourself 
—at  least  I  did— with  a  huge  veni- 
son pasty  at  my  hostel.  There  is 
another  hostel,  the  very  ideal  of  an 
Elizabeth  inn,  at  the  pretty  village 
of  Eowsley,  just  outside  the  Chats- 
worth grounds.  From  Eowsley,  a 
few  minutes  in  the  train  will  take 


40 


Dave  Dale. 


you  to  the  littie  oounfcry  Tillage  of 
Matlock,  and  the  fiuhionable  little 
town  of  Ifatlock  Bath.    The  scenery 
is  very  good,  bnt  it  is  minute,  and 
the  whole  of  Matlock  can  comfort- 
ably be  examined  and  'dispofied  of 
in  the  oouise  of  the  afternoon.    It 
is  to  be  mentioned  with  regret,  that 
the  pretty  wator  at  the  biue  of  tibie 
enormons  clifb,  though   called  a 
river,  is  often  nearlv  stagnant,  and 
ai>pear8  to  be  considerably  peopled 
with  water-rats.    If  you  go  direct 
from  Chesterfield  to  Matlock,  you 
should  turn  a  little  aside  from  the 
direct  road  to  see  the  picturesque 
village  of  Ashover.    I  have  never 
seen  this  village  noted  in  any  guide- 
book, but  in  early  days  I  used  to 
consider  the  village  a  kind  of  Happy 
Valley  of  Basselas ;  and  in  the  deep 
seclusion  and  the  romantic  character 
of  the  scenery,  it  is  very  well  de- 
serving of  a  visit    Tou   may  go 
from  Matlock  to  Buxton  by  rail; 
but  you  will  do  better  if  you  take 
the  road  from  Bakewell  to  Buxton. 
This  road,  particularly  if  the  journey 
is  made  in  the  opposite  direction, 
is  a  glorious  fait  of  travel.   When 
you  are  at  Baxton,  you  are  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Peak  country, 
which  ought  to  be  thoroughly  ex- 
plored.  At  Gastleton  you  attain  the 
finest  scenery  which  D^byshire  can 
boast,  and  it  is  quite  worth  while  to 
descend  the  cavern,  boat  along  the 
Bubtorranean  river,  and  allow  the 
guides  to   show  all  the  different 
points,  and  to  tax  all  their  experi- 
ments with  powder. 

These,  then,  are  the  most  notice- 
able points  of  Derbyshire  scenery, 
and,  whatever  else  is  neelected, 
these  are  not  to  be  omitteoL  But 
there  still  remains  one  beautifol 
locality,  rather  remote  and  difficult 
of  access  from  that  remarkable 
group  of  show  places  for  which 
Chesterfield  or  Bakewell  is  a  con- 
venient centre,  which  will  amply 
repay  your  visit,  and  grow  upon 
you  the  more  your  sojourn  is  pro- 
longed. Almost  opposite  Haddon 
Hall,  on  the  road  between  Bakewell 
and  Bowsley,  a  lane  strikes  up  the 
country.  As  you  pass  along  this 
lonely  road,  you  cannot  fail  to  be 
struck  with  the  thoroughly  sylvan, 
thoroughly  English  character  of  the 


landscape.    There  is  something  ao 
sequestered  and  untraveUed  about 
thu  route  which  fulfils  every  aspi- 
ration to  those  who  would  dears 
something  else  than  the  usual  worn 
paths.     The  late  September  days 
are  most  pleasant  to  travel  in;  the 
air  balmy  and  cool ;  but  the  days 
close  in  early,  and  the  road  to  Dove 
Dale  is  a  very  long  road,  and  the 
intervening  hills  are  very  steep 
hills.    Almost  in  the  dark,  the  pony- 
carriage— for  such  was  my  humUe 
conveyance  on   my  most    recent 
visit— had  to  go  throng  a  large 
pond,    depth    unknown,   on    the 
opposite  side  of  which  the  |Mth  to 
Dove  Dale  is  resumed.    Tissmgton, 
which  breaks  the  monotony  of  a 
long  drive,  is  a  pretty  village,  and, 
in  some  pointe  of  view,  a  memo- 
rable  village;   for  here  the  well 
dressings,  for  which  Derbyshire  is 
memorable,  have  their  chief  seat  of 
celebration.     On  Holy  Thursday, 
after  prayers  in  the  parish  church, 
and  a  sermon  duly  preached,  parson 
and  parishioners  proceed  to  the  dif- 
ferent wells,  and  ttfter  that  the  well- 
flowering  is  performed.   A  hymn  is 
sung  at  eacn  well ;  and  each  well 
is  decked  with  abundant  flowers, 
woven  into  chaplete  and  designs, 
and  ^the  day  is  kept  as  a  holiday. 
The  imagery  and  associations  at- 
tached to  wells  and  fountains  of 
water  is  of  the  simplest  and  most 
elevating  kind ;  and  we  are  glad  to 
find  that  this  innocent  holiday  is 
treated  as  a  precious  reliquary  of 
the  past,  and  held  in  due  esteem. 
When  we  have  left  Tissington  be- 
hind us,   we  descend  down  the 
steepest  and  most  awkward  of  hills 
into  the  dale.    We  are  reminded  of 
the  dialogue  between   Viator  and 
Fiscator, 

ViATOB.  'What  have  we  here— a 
church  ?  As  Pm  an  honest  man,  a 
very  pretty  church!  Have  you 
churches  in  this  country,  sir?* 

PisoATOB.  '  You  see  we  have :  but 
had  you  seen  none,  why  should  you 
make  that  doubt,  sir  ?' 

ViATOB.  '  \Miy,  if  you  will  not  be 
angry,  I'll  tell  you :  I  thought  my- 
self a  stage  or  two  beyond  Christen- 
dom.' 

Here,  then,  is  Dove  Dale  at  last, 
the  loved  of  such  poets  as  Byron 


Dave  Dale. 


41 


and  Mcmtgomenr,  by  snoh  men  as 
Ohantrey  and  Sir  Hnmphry  Davy, 
by  many  other  fieunons  men  wboae 
names  mustbe  nnrecorded  bere— be- 
loved thiongb  a  wide  Gizonit  of  the 
midland  shires  by  youth  and  maiden 
as  the  pleasantest  scene  of  snmmer 
revel— especially  beloved  by  the  wor- 
thy brotherbood  of  anglers,  *  men  of 
meek  and  peaceable  and  gentle  na- 
toies.'  For  many  miles  the  river  is 
the  boondary  between  Derbyshire 
and  Staffordshire,  the  walk  through 
the  dale  being  on  the  Derbyshire 
side.  The  beautiful  scenery  of  the 
dale  is  some  three  miles  long.  It  is 
not  often  that  scenery  so  beautifid 
is  prolonged  to  sucb  continuance. 
To  walk  up  the  wbole  extent,  and 
zetuTQ  and  rest  a  while  and  examine 
minutely  the  points  of  the  land- 
scape, and  explore  adjacent  scenery 
that  well  deserves  attention,  and 
thoroughly  to  imbibe  the  spirit  of 
the  beauties  and  purify  of  the  scene, 
like  holy  matrimony,  is  a  matter  to 
be  not  lightly  taken  in  hand,  but 
ought  to  be  done  deliberately  and 
advisedly.  It  is  a  long,  winding 
valley,  and  the  soft  air,  with  gentle 
violence,  blows  full  of  balm  along 
the  gorge.  The  foliage  feathers 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  or  grassy 
hills  arise  on,  often  enough,  the 
bare,  dark,  precipitous,  worn,  gi»- 
nity  tors.  Some  strike  boldly  to 
the  sky,  some  threateningly  bend 
forward  as  if  to  strike  and  over- 
whelm. Some  of  these  tors  break 
up  into  pinnacles,  scarps,  bulky 
fragments  that  would  seem  to  totter 
to  their  fiedl ;  some  have  been  hurled 
backward,  in  the  primitive  convul- 
fiion  of  nature,  and  are  hollowed  into 
boles  and  caves.  The  stone  ferns 
are  bere ;  here,  too,  is  the  grey  lichen, 
and  the  overgrowth  of  underwood 
is  all  about.  The  hazels  trail  their 
boughs  in  the  streams;  the  clumps 
of  birch  trees  adorn  the  slopes,  but 
the  segregated  tors  form  neither 
shadow  nor  foliage,  naked,  myste- 
rious, stern,  defiant  Each  has  its 
separate  name,  many  their  tradi- 
tion, a  few  their  genuine  stories  of 
peril  and  deathly  accident  The 
constant  river  laves  their  bases  and 
reflects  their  forms  evermore,  un- 
changed, rapid  and  clear  in  its 
<x>ur8e,  even  as  the  bird,  which  lends 


it  a  name,  shoots,  rapid  and  dear, 
through  the  unclouded  sky  over- 
bead. 

The  ima^  left  by  Dove  Dale  are 
of  a  peculiarly  clear  and  vivid  n^- 
toze:  you  have  an  exact  embodi- 
ment of  the  simple  poetic  vision  of 
green  pastures  and  still  waters. 
Nor  of  these  alone.  The  precipitous 
mountain  overhangs  the  prospect, 
the  gorge  closes  in,  the  rocks  hang 
down  their  festoons,  the  high  tors 
rise,  innumerable  and  fantastia  The 
dark  pure  river,  dark  from  its  mossy 
bed,  hurries  onwards,  growing  more 
and  more  silvery  on  the  way,  to  lose 
itself  in  the  broad  Trent  So  narrow 
is  the  path  by  the  marge,  made  dif- 
ficult by  the  roots  of  the  trees  that 
spring  up  by  the  water  side  whose 
green  crowns  wave  &r  below  the 
summits  of  the  tors,  by  the  protu- 
berant hills  whose  bases  are  uickly 
clustered  around  by  ferns  and  wild 
flowers.  Then,  the  rocks  retire  back 
from  the  river,  and  leave  a  dear 
space  of  lawn,  not  unprotected  by 
the  shadow  of  abundant  foliage, 
where  you  may  realize  that  old  de- 
light to  which  Jlorace  and  the  Ho- 
ratian  tribe  have  always  been  so 
prone,  stretched  on  the  living  turf, 
listening  to  the  strain  of  the  living 
water.  You  have  a  book  in  your 
hand  befitting  the  lazy  season  and 
the  enchanted  spot,  and  whether  you 
read,  or  whether  in  thought  and  re- 
verie the  book  escapes  from  your 
listless  grasp,  or  whether  you  sleep 
under  the  open  eye  of  heaven,  it  is 
all  equally  well  with  you.  '  Sleep, 
my  son ;  sleep  in  the  sun  is  good,' 
wrote  the  old  Greek  dramatist  Is 
it  merely  reverie,  or  is  it  the  summer 
noonday  dreun,  that  the  old  days  of 
the  seventeenth  century  are  renewed 
for  you,  and  yonder  httle  group, 
sitting  down  on  the  brink  of  yonder 
shore,  assume  the  garb  and  talk  the 
dialect  of  a  long-vanished  day?  That 
good  old  man,  brow  so  broad,  hair 
BO  silvery,  speech  so  honest  and 
coorteous,  must  needs  be,  methinks, 
the  well-loved  Izaak  Walton.  That 
surely  must  be  the  young  Izaak,  who 
is  making  a  sketch  of  ti^at  range  of 
tors  which  the  country  fancy  has 
called '  The  Apostles.'  There  is  an- 
other young  man  there,  in  sword  and 
velvet  and  with  courtly  phrase,  lam 


42 


Dove  Dak. 


m&aid  with  in  eye  iiiftt  imnderB 
towards  jonder  oonntry  Ian ;  an  air 
that,  thoQgh  refined,  has  something 
xeoUeas  and  dissipated  in  it,  who  is 
gentleman  and  seholar  andyetreok- 
less  and  uneasy,  bat  he,  too,  listens 
to  the  elder  man  and  calls  him 
':&ther.'  He  looks  over  the  shonlder 
of  the  yonnger  man  witii  appxoTal 
of  tiie  light  tooohea,  and  mnrmoxB 
to  himself  as  he  lays  his  langiud 
limbs  on  the  grass— 

'  Oh  >  mj  beloved  oymph,  ftlr  Dove* 
PrinoeaB  of  rirera !  how  I  lore 

Upon  thy  flow'ry  benks  to  Ue; 
And  view  thy  ulver  ttreeiD, 
WlMa  glided  hy  tiM  wnuBer  bcm; 

Ah,yesl  That  most  be  Charles  Cot- 
ton, the  lord  of  Beiesfiurd  Hall  here- 
abouts, and  yet  distraoted  by  duns 
and  bailifiBs,  and  glad  to  hide,  if  the 
rumoor  be  true,  in  a  neighbooring 
cayenL  I  am  afraid  there  is  a  dark 
future  before  him— if  eertain  ru- 
mours be  true,  prison  and  suicide; 
but  just  now  he  is  innocent  and 
happy,  tranquillized  by  the  concord- 
ant voices  of  the  beloved  stream  and 
*my  &tiier  Walton.'  Tea,  the  full 
river  of  speech  flows  from  the  lips 
of  the  old  man  eloquent,  not  other- 
wise than  as  the  Dove  itself  mur- 
murs on,  musical  and  rapid.  But 
in  his  talk  the  old  man  is  most  in- 
tent upon  his  fishing.  He  does  not 
think  so  much  of  hui  son's  little 
sketch,  a  new-fangled  and  unbusi- 
nesB-like  amusement  most  befitting 
that  idle  Italian  people  of  whom 
his  friend  Wotton,  the  late  Vene- 
tian ambassador,  discourses  him  so 
largely.  You  do  not  find  in  Walton 
any  poetical,  or  at  least  any  artistic, 
pictorial  talk;  he  never  gives  you 
word-paintings  of  the  river  lamd- 
Bcapes  he  knows  so  well;  there  is 
not  even  a  syllable  whispered  of 
these  strange  rocks  and  tors ;  trout 
and  grayling  have  more  solid  and 
substantial  charms  in  those  clear, 
wise,  twinkling  eyes.  He  ia  talking 
the  talk,  which,  if  we  could  only  set 
it  down,  would  bring  the  early 
Stuart  days  as  vividly  before  us  as 
Fepys  has  recalled  the  later  Stuart 
times.  He  is  acute  and  practical 
enough,  the  fiuuvdealing  merchant 
who  keeps  the  hosiery  Stiop  at  the 
comer  of  Chancery  Lane^  and  re- 


tired on  his  modest  profits  to  the 
rural  district  of  ClerkenwelL  He  is 
telling  his  friends  what  capital  three 
days'  fifthing  he  had  last  month, 
mheai  he  had  his  annual  holiday  at 
Slooy  uid  his  friend  the  worthy 
Provost  took  hhn  to  his  fishing- 
lodge  at  Bkck  Pots,  and  afterwards 
showed  him  Savile^s  superb  editioQ 
of 'Ghxysoatom' intheEtonlihrafy. 
Or  perhaps  he  is  giving  reminis- 
cences of  a  lifSa  peculiarly  rich  in 
Buohr— of  the  days  he  spent  beneath 
the  beeches  of  the  park  of  Famham 
Castle  with  the  good  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester—how in  the  evil  time  of  the 
Commonwealth,  on  a  biting  cold 
day,  he  met  the  great  Sanderaon, 
and  took  him  into  a  public-house, 
where  they  had  bread  and  cheeee 
and  beer  together,  and  the  good 
bishop  told  hun  how  he  comforted 
his  soul  in  adveraiMes  with  the 
Psalms  of  David ;  how  he  used  to 
greet  friend  Dean  Donne  Hunter  at 
SL  Paul's ;  and  how  he  went  down 
to  the  old  chureh  at  Chelsea  to  hear 
the  dean  preach  the  foneral  sermon 
of  Lady  Danvers,  the  mother  of  that 
poet  and  scholar  George  Herbert, 
who,  we  may  feel  sure,  was  likewise 
one  of  the  rapt  auditory.  Wisely, 
religiously,  and  quaintly  does  he 
talk,  and  there  is  also  a  fund  of  in- 
finite observation  and  delicate  hu- 
mour about  him.  likewise  those 
trout— surely  larger  andfresherthan 
caught  now-a-days— will  be  keenly 
looked  after,  the  very  worms  han- 
dled '  as  though  he  loved  them,'  for 
he  has  an  eye  to  his  modest  supper 
and  the  cool  tankard  of  sood  Diar- 
byshire  beer  which  will  be  its  ac- 
companiment He  will  perhaps 
quote  to  his  friends  the  nvounte 
text  which  he  took  as  the  motto  of 
his  'Angler':  'Simon  Peter  saith, 
I  go  a  fishing.  Th^  say  unto  him. 
We  also  go  with  thee.'  Perhaps  he 
lovingly  dwells  on  the  glory  <n  the 
setting  or  the  rising  sun,  as  he  did 
in  his  matchless  book :  '  And  this, 
and  many  other  like  blessings  we 
eoj/oj  daily;  and  for  most  of  them, 
because  Uiey  be  so  common,  most 
men  forget  to  pay  their  praises ;  but 
let  not  us,  because  it  is  a  sacrifice 
so  pleasing  to  Him  that  made  the 
Sun,  and  us,  and  still  protects  us, 
and  gives  us  flowers  and  showers 


Dave  Dale. 


48 


and  stomBchs  and  meat  and  content 
and  IdiBcupe  to  go  a-fiahing/ 

Thns  much  is  dieamfdl  xeyerie 
and  half  memory,  half  fancy.  Yoa 
az6  awakened  from  the  images  of 
the  past  hy  the  pleasant,  gleefnl 
sounds  of  the  living  present  Kate 
and  Arabella  are  havmg  a  duet,  and 
the  splendid  Toioes  with  trumpet 
distinctness  sweep  through  the 
gorge.  Yon,  my  young  friend,  that 
saunter  by  with  that  silken  lady 
£ur,  I  can  forgive  you  that  half- 
fierce  military  glance  at  a  mere 
listless  lounger,  because  I  know  you 
will  be  docileand  submissive  enough 
all  the  afternoon  to  those  fine  imd 
glancing  eyes.  Only  do  not  pretend 
that  you  two  must  spend  a  whole 
hour  among  the  tors  pretending  to 
search  for  a  suitable  place  for  lunch, 
when  there  is  none  that  might  not 
suit  But  th<^  do  this  sort  of 
thing  in  Arcadia,*  and  you  two  are 
Arcades  ambo.  Yonder  stout  gentle- 
man thinks  that  tiie  finest  sight  here 
will  be  the  sight  of  the  well-spread 
lunch  cloth  on  the  ground,  and  he 
and  the  rest  of  the  parties,  like  Mr. 
Tennyson, '  will  not  shun  the  foam- 
ing grape  of  Eastern  Fiance.'  And 
hare  are  the  children  and  maidens 
of  the  place,  offering  fruits,  and 
foras,  and  fiowers,  and  other  me- 
mentoes for  a  happy  Dove  Dale 
time.  I  wonder  to  myself  if  any  one 
of  you  is  like  Wordsworth's  Lucy. 
I  wonder  where  Lu<^  dwelt  Was 
it  at  the  picture-village  of  Dam 
yonder,  or  at  Dove-head,  where  the 
fountain  of  the  stream  first  gushes 
forth,  or  Narrow-dale;,  or  Hope-dale, 
or  Mill-dale? 

*8bib  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  -way, 

Beride  the  epringi  of  Dove. 
f  A  mild  whom  tbere  w«ra  none  to  prate. 

And  rery  ftw  to  love. 

<  A  Tlolflt  by  a  moaqr  stone. 

Half  hidden  from  the  «3re: 
Air  aa  attar  when  only  one, 

la  ahlning  in  the  sky. 

*8he  lived  unknown,  and  few  ooold  know. 

When  Jjacj  oeaaed  to  be; 
Bat  she  ia  in  her  graTe,  and  oh 
.  The_difference  to  me  I* 

I  arise  up  and  go  to  nly  hostel, 
the  Izaak  Walton.  Ah,  my  military 
friend  1  when  you  come  to  my  time 
of  life  you  will  think  that  a  good 


dinner  indoors  is  just  as  enjoyable 
and  much  more  comfortable  than 
out  on  the  grass.  I  ask  carefully 
whether  lasaak  Walton  ever  really 
lived  here.  They  point  out  to  me 
what  part  of  the  house  is  modem,and 
they  take  me  to  a  long,  low  room, 
which  might  have  been  the  room 
where  he  and  his  friends  had  their 
'  evenings/  and  it  has  that  steady, 
seventeenth-century-look  about  it, 
that  I  mean  to  adhere  to  this  belief 
and  maintain  it  Anon  we  must  go 
to  the  fishing  house  which  Cotton 
built  for  Walton—read  the  inscrip- 
tions which  they  read  'piacatori- 
bus  sacrum,'  look  through  the  win- 
dows which  they  looked  through, 
enjoy  as  they  enjoyed  this, '  a  kind 
of  peninsula  with  a  delicate  dear 
river  about  it' 

BefoTB  I  conclude  this  paper  I 
will  quote  from  my '  Elorilegium '  a 
fine  passage  I  reoentiy  disinterred 
from  a  work  now  littie  read.  In 
Goldsmith's  '  Animated  Nature,' 
which  was  mere  bookwork  concocted 
for  the  booksellers,  we  suddenly 
meet  with  a  beautiful  passage  in  re- 
ference to  Izaak  Walton  which 
might  well  compaie  with  the 
choicest  parts  of '  The  Traveller '  or 
'Deserted  Village':  'Happy  Eng- 
land! where  the  sea  funushes  an 
abundant  and  luxurious  repast,  and 
the  fresh  waters  an  innocent  and 
harmless  pastime ;  where  the  angler, 
in  cheerful  soUtude,  strolls  by  the 
edge  of  the  stream  and  fears  neither 
the  coiled  snake  nor  the  lurking 
crocodile;  where  he  can  retire  at 
night,  with  his  few  tronts— to  borrow 
the  pretty  description  of  old  Wal- 
ton—to some  friendly  cottage,  where 
the  landlady  is  good  and  the  daugh- 
ter innocent  and  beautiful;  where 
the  room  is  cleanly  with  lavender  in 
the  sheets  and  twenty  ballads  stuck 
about  the  wall !  There  he  can  e^joy 
the  company  of  a  talkative  brother 
sportsman,  have  his  trout  dressed 
for  supper,  tell  tales,  sing  old  tunes, 
or  make  a  catch !  There  he  can  talk 
of  the  wonders  of  nature  with 
learned! admiration,  or  find  some 
harmless  sport  to  content  him,  and 
pass  away  a  little  time,  without  of- 
fence to  Gkxl  or  injury  to  man.' 

P.  A. 


4i 


THE  BEOMPTON  HOSPITAL  FOE  CONSUMPTION. 


I  SUPPOSE  there  are  few  of  ns 
who  have  not  notioed  that  pa- 
latial building  abutting  on  Onsloir 
Square,  in  the  Brompton  Bead, 
which  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  hand- 
somest and  most  intaresting  of  Lon- 
don hospitals,  and  which  both 
testifies  and  appeals  to  large-hearted 
charity,  in  that  noble  phrase,  dear 
to  every  patriotic  Englishman, 
*  Supported  by  voluntary  contri- 
butions.' There  have  been  few 
hours  more  sadly  pleasant  than 
those  which  I  have  spent  in  the  re- 
peated inspection  of  the  hospital 
and  in  fiuniliarizinK  myself  with  its 
most  interesting  details.  To  me 
those  trim  gardens,  those  spacious 
wards,  those  long  galleries,  that 
exquisite  chapel,  are  as  interesting 
as  could  be  any  picture-gallery, 
palace,  or  museum  in  ail  Europe. 
There  is  a  human  interest  also,  of  a 
strong  personal  and  dramatic  kind, 
which  can  never  be  realized  in  any 
delineation  of  fictitious  sufifering. 
In  the  thought  of  the  suffering  alle- 
Tiated,  the  consolations  conferred, 
the  useful  knowledge  stored  up  by 
such  an  institution,  there  must  be 
a  source  of  the  deepest  gratification 
to  evenr  lover  of  his  kind. 

But  let  me  first  tell  a  plain  story 
very  plainly.  A  generation  ago  it 
was  generally  thought  that  con- 
sumption was  altogether  an  in- 
curable disease.  The  hospitals  were 
altogether  laJack  to  open  their  gates 
to  cases  hopeless  and  helpless. 
Those  institutions  could  hardly 
afford  to  receive  the  inmate  whose 
case  would  be  long,  lingering,  and 
ultimately  fatal.  But  it  was  lelt  by 
kindly  hearts  that  this  very  set  of 
circumstances  was  such  as  to  give 
the  poor  sufferer  a  peculiar  claim 
on  sympathy  and  kindness.  The 
tremendous  preponderance  of  chest 
diseases  over  all  other  diseases  filled 
the  country  with  patients  whose 
simple  direful  histories  made  them 
worthy  recipients  of  the  benefits  of 
such  an  institution.  It  so  provi- 
dentially happened  that  about  the 
time  that  this  hospital  arose  a 
very  remarkable  stride  was  made  by 
medical  science  in  the  treatment  of 


this  disease.    About  the  year  1840 
a  litUe  work,  published  by  a  pro- 
vincial medical  man,  Mr.  Bodington, 
of    Sutton   Ck)ldae]d,   indicated    « 
simple  and  decided  curative  method, 
and  even  medical  science,  that  had 
been  skilful  in  diagnosis  but  mainly 
despairing  and  feeble  in  treatmentp 
grappled  with  great  energy  with 
the  difficulties  presented  by  such 
cases,  devising  many  palliatives  and 
even  methods  of  cure  in  the  earlier 
stages.    Oonsequently  the  hospital 
was  commenced  under  happy  au- 
guries, and   has  eigoyed  a  long 
career    of    extensive    usefulneaB. 
Every  means  of  core  or  alleviation 
that  human  ingenuity  could  suggest 
or  unstinted  liberally  procure  has 
been  freely  tried.    No  comfort  or 
even  expensive  luxury  is  withheld 
if,  in  medical  opinion,  it  is  likely  to 
prove  benefioiu.     I  see  that  even 
champagne  is  administered  in  some 
cases,  a  wine  that  stands  high  on 
the  list  of  medicines.  Looking  down 
the  report,  I  noticed  that  some  good 
Christian  had   sent    the  hospital 
sundry    presents    of    champagne. 
And  those  who  have  an  unlimited 
enjoyment  of  wines,  fruit,  and  game 
would  perhaps  have  better  appetites 
and  better  digestion  if  they  knew 
that  they  had  sent  off  basket  or 
hamper  to  our  hospital.    It  must 
be  quite  a  paradise  to  poor  patients. 
With  narrow  means,  in  ill-Tenti- 
lated  dwellings,  they  have  scanty 
chances  of  recovery,  and  suddexily 
they  are  transferred  to  a  palatial 
abode,  where  the  best  medical  skill 
in  London  is  at  their  disposal — 
where  the  best  food  and  medicine 
are  regularly  supplied— where  every 
circumstance  of  diet,  clothing,  tem- 
perature, is  accurately  tested — and 
where  pleasant  occupation  and  re- 
laxation are  abundantiy  provided. 
Indeed  if  I  were  to  hint  any  criti- 
cism on  the  management  of  the 
institution,  which  I  should  do  with 
the   utmost   diffidence,   I    should 
imagine  that  on  the  whole  the  treat- 
ment generally  is  of  too  generous 
and    stimulative-  a   kind.     I  am 
afraid  that  th^  must  feel  the  con- 
trast very  keenly  when  their  term^ 


The  Bromplon  Eosj^talfor  Camumjptian. 


45 


three  months,  in  rare  instances  pro- 
longed to  six— is  completed,  and 
they  have  to  retom  to  their  own 
homes.  Great  efforts  have  been 
made  to  mitigate  and  improve  the 
condition  of  the  patients  both  before 
and  after  their  admission  as  actual 
inmates.  A  period  of  from  two  to 
ten  weeks  ordinarily  elapses  be- 
tween the  giving  of  a  letter  of  recom- 
mendation and  the  admission  of  a 
patient  But  the  recommended 
person  at  once  becomes  an  ontr 
patient;  and  some  benevolent  ladies 
are  now  conducting  an  auxiliary 
institution  at  the  Manor  Houee, 
Chelsea.  This  institution  is  de- 
signed for  those  who  are  waiting 
their  turns  for  admission  to  the 
hospitaJ,  or  who,  after  leaving  i1^ 
shall  need  a  refuge  till  they  can 
re-establish  their  health  or  find 
suitable  employment  They  have 
a  cheerful  home,  with  a  large  shel- 
tered garden,  and  the  use  of  a  good 
kitchen,  but  they  have  to  provide 
their  own  means  of  living  until  a 
larger  expansion  of  Christian  plans 
permits  an  extension  of  tins  as  of 
many  other  Christian  schemes.  A 
simikr  institution  is  the  Boee  Fund 
in  connection  with  the  hospital. 
Mr.  Philip  Bose  had  so  large  a 
share  in  the  origin  and  progress 
of  the  hospital  that  he  may  be 
justly  regarded  as  its  founder.  It 
was  very  natural  that  his  associates 
in; this  good  work  should  desire 
some  permanent  commemoration  of 
it  in  a  portrait  for  the  new  board- 
room, and  a  subscription  was 
rapidly  filled  up  for  this  desirable 
purpose.  But  when  the  good  man 
heard  of  it  he  earnestly  requested 
that  the  design  might  be  aban- 
doned, and  the  subscription  went 
towards  a  Bose  Fund  to  give  help 
in  money  and  clothing  to  patients 
leaving  the  hospital.  There  is  only 
one  addition  which  we  should  much 
desire  to  see  made  to  the  admirable 
accessories  to  the  hospital.  We 
should  very  much  like  to  see  a  con- 
valescent hospital  on  the  cottage 
plan,  which  on  the  whole  appears 
to  us  preferable  to  the  ordinary 
plan,  established  in  some  desirable 
neighbourhood  on  the  south  coast 
The  other  day,  passing  through  the 
Underoliff  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  I 


noticed  the  building  of  snob  a  cot- 
tage hospital  in  progression,  and  I 
believe  that  there  are  similar  insti- 
tutions at  Bournemouth,  Seaford, 
and  other  places ;  and  I  should  like 
to  see  one,  on  a  large  scale,  directly 
affiliated  to  the  Brompton  Hospital. 
We  will  now  stroll  about  the  hos- 
pital and  go  a  little  into  details. 
We  see  the  patients,  feeble  folk,  like 
the  coneys,  sunning  themselves  in 
the  grounds  or  resting  on  the 
benches.  They  have  been  saved  any 
stress  of  exertion  by  the  use  of  the 
lift;  and  the  hospital  lift,  unlike 
those  at  some  great  hotels,  is  never 
out  of  order.  You  may  enter  into 
converse  with  the  iomates;  but  I 
need  hardly  say  that  any  conversa- 
tion of  this  kind  must  be  managed 
with  skill  and  delicacy.  Any  com- 
munity of  suffering  will  at  once 
create  a  kind  of  freemasonry.  Part 
of  the  ground  floor,  on  a  level  with 
the  gardens,  contains  the  dispensary 
and  the  rooms  for  out-patients.  The 
number  of  these  out-patients  has 
rapidly  increased  from  year  to  year, 
as  the  great  advantages  of  the  insti- 
tution have  become  apparent ;  and 
at  the  present  time  they  can  hardly 
fall  much  short  of  the  rate  of  ten 
thousand  annually.  The  only  draw- 
back to  this  is  to  be  found  in  the 
reflection  that  very  many  persons 
will  be  resorting  to  this  chanty  who 
can  wdl  afford  to  pay  a  doctor  of 
their  own— a  serious  and  growing 
detriment  to  the  medical  profession. 
The  remedy  is  that  the  governors 
should  be  cautious  in  issuing  their 
letters  of  recommendation.  This 
department  is  now  quite  separate 
from  the  house.  The  ventilation  is 
by  means  of  an  ingenious  apparatus 
invented  by  Dr.  Neil  Amott.  They 
also  make  a  point  of  using  fires  in 
addition  to  this  apparatus  for  the 
sake  of  cheerfulness  and  warmth. 
Gftie  same  steam  serves  the  kitchen, 
warms  the  baths,  turns  the  spit, 
grinds  the  coffee,  and  raises  the 
lift  The  temperature,  pleasant  and 
equable,  is  carefully  maintained.  It 
is  very  pleasant  to  move  about  the 
long,  spacious,  well-lighted  corri- 
dors. For  a  short  time  yon  might 
even  forget  that  you  were  in  a  hos- 
pital at  fdl,  and  think  that  you  were 
lounging  in  a  pleasant  gallery  d^ 


46 


The  BrmiqpUm  EcBjpikdfor  Caiuumjdion. 


dgned  for  lecsreatioiL    T<ra  feel  this 
especially  in  the  loirar  floor,  dengned 
for  female  imnates,  adorned  with  to 
many  little  feminine  graoes.    They 
aie  walking   aboat,   chatting   to- 
gether on   easy   diaira   and  soft 
oonefaai.     There  are  bookabelTeB 
about  wiili  wdl-wom  books  there- 
on ;  leligioaB  literatnre,  nsefol  lite- 
ratuxe,  and  also  a  feir  amount  of 
noyels  and  newspapers.    They  take 
in  both  dailies  and  weeklies  alscs  and 
they  shall  have  at  least  this  monthly 
magazine  as  well     The  chaplain 
says  that  there  is  always  a  demand 
for  litexatore,  and  that  books  and 
periodicals  prove  most  acceptable 
presents.     £aeh  gallery  has  sepa- 
rate bookcases,  which  divide  ofif  the 
general   ccmtents  of   the   library. 
It  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  the  in- 
mates at  tea,  such  of  them,  at  least, 
as  are  able  to  gather  together  to 
tiie  social  meal  in  the  gallery.    It  is 
a  very  sodal  meal  at  the  hospital 
Formerly  the  dietary  consisted  only 
of  coffee  or  cocoa,  but  now  tea  and 
bnttar  have  been  added,  and  tea  and 
batter  are  most  important  items  in 
the  evening  meal  of  the  poor.  These 
worthy  people  have  also  a  passion 
for  watercreeses.    They  have  to  bny 
their  watensresses^  bat  then,  in  the 
purchase  of  watercreeses,  even  a 
halfpenny  goes  a  long  way.    Many 
of  them  have  solids  ordeied  in  ad- 
dition.   The  tables  are  frequently 
adorned  with  flowers,  perchance  the 
gift  of  kindly  Mend&    But  even  at 
this  time  we  see  the  forms  of  the 
medical  attendant  and  his  clinical 
clerk  flittmg  through  the  gallery  to 
thedifiSarent  wards.  Theinmateshave 
the  advantage  of  the  constant  atten- 
tion of  an  excellent  chaplain,  and  the 
supervision  of  a  committee,  kind- 
hearted  and  sympathising.    Every 
Monday  evming,  from  January  to 
May,  entertainments  axe  given  to 
them,  lectures,    dissolving  views, 
readings,  music,  l^ierdemain,  &c. ; 
and  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that 
the  committee  are  satisfied  that  they 
have  proved  eminently  saocessful  in 
cheering  and  enlfveniug  the  patients. 
The  second  floor  is  given  up  to  the 
men ;  the  attics  to  the  nurses  and 
servants;  the  lower  rooms  to  the 
clinical  aariBtants.    The  west  wing 
is  called  the  Yictoria  gallery,  and 


her  giadoQS  Majesty  has  not  only 
been  the  patroness,  but  always  the 
firm  friend  of  the  institution.    The 
gallery  of  the  east  wing  is  called  the 
Jenny  Lind  gallery:  it  wfll  be  re- 
membered howmunificently  Madame 
Goldschmidt  gave  the  brilliant  ser- 
vices which  enibbled  the  committee 
to  begin  this  part  of  the  edifice.   On 
the  second  floor,  the  gallery  is  called 
after  Prince  Albert,  who  in  1844 
laid  the  foundation-stone  of  the  hos- 
pitaL    The  east  gallery  is  most  de- 
servedly named  aftnr  the  Bev.  Sir 
Henry  Foulis.      Sir    Henry  also 
built,  at  his  own  expense,  the  ex- 
quisite chapel  attached  to  the  hos- 
Eital.     It  is  luxuriously  fitted  up, 
ut  in  the  peculiar  case  of  an  in- 
valid congregation,  luxury  becomes 
a  necessily.    The  chajMl  might  well 
belong  to  some  collegiate  or  cathe- 
dral edifice;  a  dim,  religioua  light 
is   Bufldsed  through   the  painted 
glass ;  modest  ornamentation  is  not 
wanting,  and  the  building  has  a 
thoroughly  eccledastioal  character. 
There  is,  of  course,  a  very  gmt 
difference  among  the  patients.  Some 
are  so  exceedingly  ill  that  they  are 
unable  to  leave  their  rooms  and 
only  come    here  to    die.      Such 
thoroughly  hopeless  cases   ought 
very  rarely  to  be  admitted,  as  in 
very  advanced  cases  the  treatment 
must  ful  to  benefit  the  sufferers, 
must  depress  their  fellow-patients, 
and  will  probably  be  ezclndiDg  a 
more  hopeful  cases.    At  other  times 
the  disorder  has  made  such  a  slight 
advance  that  it  is  almost  difficult  to 
believe  that  they  are  really  ill.  With 
all  of  them  there  seems  to  be  the 
same  cheerful,  submissive,  grateful 
converse;  fervent  acknowledgments 
of  the  kindness  they  receive,  and  the 
evidence  of  that  softeoiing,  purifying 
result  so  often  produced  by  a  pro- 
longed illness.     Sometimes  in  the 
case  of  a  tall,  graceful  girl,  the 
hectic  flush  is  hardly  to  be  dis- 
tinguished  frcm  youthful    loveli- 
ness.   It  has  alwavs  been  noted 
how  consumption   has  a  natural 
affinity  for  the  fiurest  blossoms.  No- 
thing can  be  more  gratifying  than  to 
detect  the  genuine  blush  of  return- 
ing health.     Most  pitiable  is  the 
case  of  littie  children,  very  little 
ohfldren  indeed,  who  are  suffering 


The  Brom^pUm  EotpUalfor  Comumj^ion. 


47 


in  fheir  chests.  They  die  off,  like 
the  floweis  of  the  field,  almost  as 
peaoefally  and  nnoonsdons  of  dan- 
ger. I  hare  had  some  interesting 
cozLTersation  with  patients.  One, 
I  lememher,  had  been  a  shopman 
in  a  yery  ftshionable  draper's  shop 
in  the  West-end.  The  work  inTolyed 
late  honis,  bad  air,  constant  move- 
ment, and  the  lifb'ng  of  heavy 
weights.  I  imagine  that  diapers' 
assistants,  as  a  class,  are  yery  Imble 
to  phthisu.  The  same  canses  are, 
however,  operating  towards  the  same 
result  in  a  variety  of  directions. 
Work  too  proloped,  and  the  want 
of  open  raeatmng- spaces;  work- 
shops and  dweUlDg-honseB  ill-con- 
stmcted,  overorowded,  nnventilated, 
are  main  canses;  sometimes  heredi- 
tary weakness,  or  casnal  illness, 
perhaps  of  that  most  snspioiona 
kind,  a  neglected  cold. 

I  snppose  that,  as  a  rale,  nothing 
can  be  drier  or  more  nnneoessary 
reading  than  to  look  over  the  list  of 
snbscnptions  and  donations  to  a 
charity;  yet  as  I  looked  over  this 
list  I  fonnd  in  it  many  points  of 
interest    I  see,  for  instance,  that  at 
the  ikshioDable  chnrch  which  ahnost 
adjoins  the  chapel  very  large  smns 
have  been  collected,  which  makes 
the  incumbent  a  governor  almost  to 
an  unlimited  extent  Then  I  see  how 
much  the  poet  Bobert  Montgconery 
did  for  the  institution.    One  of  the 
wards,  I  observe,  is  called  after  his 
nama    He  was  not  a  good  poet,  but 
still  he  was  not  so  bad  a  poet  as 
Macaulay  made  him] out  to  be;  for 
in  that  case  his  poons  would  not 
have  run  through  so  many  editions. 
But  he  was  a  good  man,  and  did 
good  work  as  a  clergyman  and  theo- 
logical writer.  His  sympathies  were 
enthusiastically  enlisted  on  behalf 
of  the  chapel;  and  I  am  sure  that 
Macaulay,  who  in  his  later  years 
had  an  increasing  passion  for  bene- 
volence, on  this  ground  would  have 
co-operated  heart  and  soul  with  the 
man  whom  he  reviewed  too  slash- 
ingly  to  be  altogether  just    I  see 
here  a  laige  subscription  from  a 
very  gifted  man.    I  am  much  afraid 
that  his  own  chest  is  fax  from  sound, 
and  thus  we  have  the  effect  of  the 
blessed  bond  of  sympathy.    I  see  a 
man  subscribing  an  unwonted  sub- 


scription for  one  of  his  hard  chanc- 
ter;  but  I  know  how  he  has  lost  the 
flowerets  of  his  own  home,  and  this 
tells  me  something.  Again  and  again 
I  notice  sums '  From  an  In-Patient,' 
<  From  an  Out-Patient'  Let  no  man 
say  that  gratitude   is  an  extinct 
virtue.    The  sums  are  modest,  but 
the  love  has  been  deep  and  prompt 
Here  is  a  list  of  preachers.    I  ob- 
serve that  the  largest  sum  raised  at  a 
collection  was  after  a  sermon  by  the 
Bishop  of  Oxford,  except  perhaps, 
the  Bishop  of  Peterborough.    I  be- 
lieve it  is  calculated  that  the  bishop 
can  get  in  this  way  just  as  much 
monoy  again  as  anybody  else.   I  see 
that  our  political  leaders  subscribe. 
Lord  I>en>y,  Lord  Stanley,  Mr.  Dis^ 
raeli.  Earl  Bussell;  lit^nury  man, 
like  Dickens  and  Buskin;  artists, 
as  Mlllais,  and  so  an.    Some  of  the 
entries  are  affecting  enough.    Thus, 
'In  Memory  of  G.  P.  ilL,  loooZ.' 
Then  we  have  '  A  Thank-offering,' 
in  remembrance,  perhaps,  of  a  hi^py 
recovery.    Then,  again,  we  have  a 
large  sum  under  the  head  '  Offerings 
to  Ahnighty  God  in  the  house  of 
J.  W.  B.,  whose  death  was  occasioned 
by  abscess  in  the  lungs.'     Then 
comes    an    anonymous    thousand 
pounds  from  one  who  will  not  let 
ner  left  hand  know  what  her  ri^t 
handdoeth.   There  are  several  sub- 
scriptions with  the  affecting  words 
'  In  memoriam,'  or  '  In  memory  of 
Annie  H.,  from  her  sorrowing  pa- 
rents.'   Then  some  one  slips  a  five- 
pound  note  into  the  ahn's  box, '  God's 
gift  to  his  poor.'    The  initial  letters 
of  the  alpluibet  are  very  liberal ;  and 
large  sums  come  in  from  that  ever- 
useful  being,  'A  Friend,'  who  repeat- 
edly proves  himself  to  be  a  friend 
indeed.    The  CSty  Gompanies]  come 
out  nobly.     What  glimpses   and 
glances  of  sorrow  and  goodness  do 
we  obtain,  which  indeed  I  should 
hesitate  to   bring  out  from  their 
almost  privacy,  save  that  the  fra- 
grance of  their  example  may  be 
rid  abroad— the  Dngrance   of 
ointment  be  diffused. 
And  if  society  maintains  this  pa- 
latial hospital,  it  must  be  recollected 
also  t^t  the  hospital  does  much  for 
society.  .It  must  oe  remembered  also 
how,  in  its  thoughtiessness  and  ex- 
travagance, or  by  its  stem,  necessary 


48 


Hie  BrampUm  EoipUatfor  Oomamptum. 


commands,  sodely  does  mtioh  to 
feed  the  hospice  with  the  TictimB  of 
oonsnmptioiL    The  poor  mechanic, 
inhaling  the  poiBonons  dnst,  or  (wr- 
chance    the   sempstiefle,   working 
through  the  night  in  disohedienoe 
to  the  Iaw  of  the  land,  bat  obeying 
the  more  inexorable  law  of  fEusnion 
and  its  wants,  haye  sent  their  con- 
tribntories  to  the  disabled  ranks  of 
the  diseased.     This  is  one  of  the 
reasons  why  the  wealthy  should 
largely  contribate  to  such  an  object. 
Those  especially  who,  perchance  in 
Italian  homes,  or  in  sonthem  isles, 
are  drooping  with  hectic  languish- 
ing, will  surely  haye  some  chord  of 
sympathy  touched  for  those  afflicted 
thus ;  and  assuredly  their  costly  re- 
medies will  not  be  less  efficacious  if 
th^  thus  propitiate  heayen  with 
chfi^iy  and  self-denial.    It  would 
not  be  difficult  to  proye  to  demon- 
stration how  such  an  hospital  is  most 
helpful  to   the  yital   mterests  of 
society.    It  affords  a  school  of  me- 
dical study  for  the  most  complex, 
insidious,  and  widely  peyalent  of 
disorders.     Its  medical  offices  are 
yalued  as  posts  of  honour ;  its  expe- 
rience is  of  the  highest  importance 
to  students,  and  attendance  here  is 
accepted  by  great  institutions  as  an 
integral  part  of  medical  education. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  cure  of 
consumption  is  the  greatest  problem 
in  therapeutics ;  and  if  eyer  a  cure 
is  to  be  discoyered  it  will  be,  in  aU 
probabiliiiy,  through  that  process  of 
careful  obeeryation  and  accurate  in- 
duction which  can  only  be  secured  by 
a  yast  hospital  of  this  kind.  Formy 
own  part  1  hardly  doubt,  but  some- 
where in  the  realm  of  nature  there 
is  an  antidote  to  tubercle  as  sure  as 
the  discoyered  prophylactic  against 


smaU-pox.    Then,  through  the  ao- 
cnmulation  of  facts,  some  happy 
genius  wiQ  reach  to  a  dim  surmise, 
and  then  to  a  daring  guess,  and 
afterwards  to  a  scientific  yerification. 
This  belongs  to  that  wisdom  which 
is  hidden  on  eyery  side  around  us, 
that  man  by  searching  may  find  it 
out    Already  the  progress  of  me- 
dical knowledge  in  recent  years  has 
been  most  maryellous  in  deyising 
yarions  pallialiyes  for  this  illness, 
and  in  eneoting  its  curability  in  the 
earlier  stages;  and  we  may  yenture 
to  belieye  that  remedies  of  a  more 
specific  character  than  those  hitherto 
atteined  may  befoii  long  be  dis- 
coyered. And  albeit  it  may  be  some 
happy  accident,  like  Newton*s  fall- 
ing apple,  or  Jenner  s  discoyery  of 
inoculation,  that  may  lead  to  the 
greatest  Eureka  of  modem  medicine, 
yet  it  is  more  consonant  with  probar 
bilities  and  experience  that  such  a 
glorious  result  should  accrue  ficom 
the  methods  of  reasoning  and  obser- 
yation  practised  at  the  Brompton 
medical  school  of  consumption.    It 
may  be  said  that  ahcady  modes  of 
treatment  haye  be^i  tried,  remedies 
tested,  experiments   made,  results 
registered,  that  haye  been  of  the 
highest  practical  importance  in  the 
diagnosis  and   treatment  of    this 
disease  throughout  the  country.   So 
true  is  it  that  in  our  complex  system 
of  sodety  there  is  a  wonderful  ^stem 
of  reciprocal  good  or  eyil.  All  mem- 
bers suffer  or  rejoice  with  ibe  suffer- 
ing and  rejoicing  member ;  and  the 
g(3den  deeds  that  ascend  heayen- 
wards  in  acts  of  charity  descend  in 
fertilizing  showers  of  mercy  upon 
the  earth,  both  on  the  just  and  on 
the  uiuust,  ihe  eyil  and  the  good. 

F.  A. 


49 


DESIDEEIA ! 

IS  it  for  this  my  life  has  weary  grown, 
And  yellow  leaf  instead  of  bloom  appears? 
For  ihiB,  that  care  upon  my  head  has  thrown 

The  early  snow,  that  tells  of  early  tears? 
Is  it  for  this  I  seem  so  lonely  now, 

Though  he  is  ever  near  and  at  my  side. 
To  tempt  me  towards  despair,  and  tell  me  how 

My  days  are  narrow'd  and  the  world  so  wide? 
The  day  is  dearest,  when  the  daylight's  dying, 
And  sorrow  sweetcNst,  if  she's  softly  sighing 
Low  to  my  heart,  forget 
All  that  is  past— bnt  yet. 
Is  it  for  this? 

Is  it  for  this  I  gave  them  up  my  hand 

Becanse  they  preach'd  to  me  of  duty  so? 
A  hand  exchanged  for  laces  and  for  land ; 

For  old  Sir  Thomas  was  thrown  in,  yon  know. 
Is  it  for  this  he  stifled  me  with  furs. 

And  wedged  my  fingers  knnckle-deep  with  rings. 
And  broaght  me  down  among  his  cows  and  ours, 

A  wife,  but  with  what  wild  imaginings ! 
The  days  seem  longer  when  the  moonlight  lingers. 
And  will  not  touch  the  landscape  with  her  fingezs. 
So  that  each  tender  ray. 
Deep  to  my  heart  can  say, 
Ls  it  for  this? 

Is  it  for  this  I'tc  said  farewell !— farewell ! 

Sweet  love  lie  burled,  for  you  may  not  wake? 
Bear  murdered  love,  as  these  worn  eyes  will  tell 

As  tears  repentant  irom  mine  eyelids  shake. 
For  this  I  sit  surrounded  by  his  plate. 

And  wish  myself  the  time  a  beggar-maid. 
For  this  respect  grows  daily  nearer  hate, 
And  still  the  debt  of  duty  is  not  paid. 
The  gloaming's  tenderost  when  I  am  lonely ; 
For  then  to  me  the  breezes  whisper  only 
Soft  to  my  soul,  regret 
Dies  in  the  end ;  but  yet. 
Is  it  for  this? 

Is  it  for  this  the  children  I  could  kiss 

About  my  knees  and  bosom  cannot  cling. 
And  call  me  woman's  sweetest  name :  for  this 

Hushed  is  the  lullaby  my  lips  would  sing. 
Ah,  me !  what  might  have  been  were  doubly  dear 

Both  for  its  love  and  its  anzieiy ; 
For  I  would  rather  love  and  starve  a  year 

Than  live  in  wealth  unloved  eternally. 

My  life  soems  sweeter  when  I  dream  I'm  nearer 

The  end  of  all,  thjEui  all  things  which  is  dearer; 

Then  will  my  parting  breath 

Whisper,  come  kindly  death. 

It  is  for  this  I 

C.  W.  S. 


VOL,  XVI.  -NO.  XCT. 


60 


IN  THE  HEAET  OF  THE  EABTH. 


I  THINK  we  created  some  excite- 
ment at  Falmouth.  Unconven- 
tional in  our  attire,  merry  in  our 
deportment^  excited  in  our  de- 
meanour, and  altogether  imbued 
with  that  excellent  Mark  Tapleian 
philosophy  of  being  'jolly  under 
any  drcumstanoes,'  it  is  small 
wonder  that  we  did  create  some 
excitement  at  Falmouth.  We  have 
none  of  us  a  word  to  say  against 
Falmouth — a  charming,  health- 
giving,  and  delightful  spot,  in 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  English 
counties,  Cornwall,— indeed,  we  are 
all  of  us  inclined  to  mark  with  a 
white  stone  the  day  that  the  Fal- 
mouth expedition  was  proposed  in 
a  certain  smoking  room,  of  which 
history  knoweth  not,  but  individuals 
a  very  great  deal.  The  little  army 
that  invaded  the  place  of  which  I 
am  speaking,  where  the  sea  is  of  the 
bluest  and  the  harbour  of  the 
grandest  description,  was  mixed  in 
its  tastes,  talent,  and  temper.  In 
this  consisted  our  jollity.  We  gave 
and  took;  smothered  our  absur- 
dities; advertised  our  excellences* 
offended  no  one,  and  seldom  laid 
ourselves  open  to  giving  offence.  1 
am  not  egotistical,  for  I  am  speak- 
ing of  the  party  in  its  collective 
form.  We  behaved  prettily  on  all 
occasions.  It  was  too  hot  to  put 
ourselves  out  of  temper,  and  the 
society  too  pleasant  to  suggest 
boredom.  If  young  Cecil,  the  bud- 
ding poet,  chose  to  read  Tennyson's 
Idylls— backed  up  most  strongly 
by  Isaline  Langworthy,  with  the 
fair  hair  and  blue  eyes— on  the 
pleasant  cliff  underneath  the  castle, 
we  raised  no  objection.  Those  who 
cared  to  hear  Cecil  spout  listened ; 
and  tiiose  who  detested  poetry  went 
to  sleep.  If  the  famous  Farqua- 
harson,  briefless  barrister,  orator, 
and  sucking  politician,  choFC  to  dis- 
cuss Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill  and  the 
female  franchise,  women's  rights 
and  the  rest  of  it— backed  up  most 
strongly  by  Maude  Carruthers,  with 
the  raven  hair  and  olive  complexion 
— we  allowed  him  to  rap  his 
knuckles  on  the  table,  and  talk  us 
into  a  semi-idiotic  state  of  stupor. 


If  Harry  Armstrong  found  delight 
in  bringing  his  London  manners 
into  Cornwall,  and  preferred  the 
socie^  of  a  certain  soft-eyed  littlo 
divinity  who  sold  newspapers  and 
gum-arabic  in  the  town  to  our 
sweet  society,  we  allowed  him  to 
make  excuses  for  deserting  us, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  a 
little  innocent  and  unavoidable 
'chaff,'  he  was  free  to  'spoon' 
all  day  in  the  stationer's  shop 
for  aught  we  cored.  We  excused 
Lilian  Comer's  scales  and  morn- 
ing exercises,  for  the  sake  of  her 
Heller,  Hiller,  Schubert,  and 
Chopin ;  her  tarantellas,  moonlight 
sonatas,  and  reveries,  vriib.  which  we 
were  favoured  in  the  evening  if  we 
behaved  ourselves  very  prettily. 
The  'irrepressible  Edgar,'  as  we 
used  to  call  the  youngest  male 
member  of  our  community,  was 
allowed  to  give  full  vent  to  his 
overflowing  spirits  all  day  long,  pro- 
vided he  woke  us  betimes  in  the 
morning  to  get  our  matutinal  plunge 
in  the  blue  waters  that  curled  them- 
selves refreshingly  into  'Summer 
Cove.'  And  what  of  our  host  and 
hostess  ?  Theirs  indeed  was  a  rule 
of  love ;  and  as  they  allowed  us  to 
do  exactly  as  we  liked,  we  were  the 
more  considerate  in  meeting  their 
wishes  and  pulling  all  together. 

We  had  vainly  imagined  that  we 
had  seen  everything  worth  seeing 
in  the  environs  of  Falmouth,  and 
enjoyed  ourselves  as  much  as  is 
consistent  with  human  nature, 
when  our  party  received  a  valuable 
addition.  A  certain  sweet  song- 
stress of  whom  the  world  has  heard, 
and  of  whom  the  world  will  ere 
long  hear  a  great  deal  more,  came 
down  amongst  us  to  breathe  her 
native  air,  and  get  new  inspirations 
and  health  from  the  woods  and 
caverns,  and  rocks  and  sea-music, 
with  which  we  were  surrounded. 

But  the  songstress  did  not  come 
alone.  She  brought  her  sweet 
voice  and  all  our  old  pet  songs; 
the  songs  set  to  words  which  were 
poetry,  and  the  words  wedded  to 
music  which  breathed  of  love,  and 
was  therefore  quite  unsaleable ;  she 


In  the  Heart  cf  the  Earth. 


51 


biought  her  cheery  manner  and 
her  indomitable  plack  —  ahe  has 
been  in  the  saddle  daring  the  late 
American  campaign  for  days  and 
days,  has  this  sweet  soDgstress  of 
mine,— and  she  broaght  her  brother. 

Her  brother  was  snoh  a  good 
fellow  that  I  mnst  really  introduce 
him  with  a  little  bit  of  a  preface.  He 
was,  if  I  may  make  nse  of  an  ex- 
proasion,  most  pusszling  at  sohooli 
and  most  nsefol  in  after  life— a 
walking  oxymoron.  He  was  an 
Englishman,  and  not  an  English- 
-man.  An  Englishman  he  was  in 
heart,  and  speech,  and  bearing ;  bat 
destiny  had  stolen  him  away  from 
his  native  land  years  ago,  to  shed 
his  cheeriness  on  other  dimes. 

So  mnch,  howerer,  did  he  lave 
the  old  ooantry,  that  once  in  every 
three  or  four  years  he  wended  his 
way  hack  again^-the  Incky  swal  low ! 
— ^his  pockets  fall  of  gold,  and  his 
heart  fall  of  loTe,  to  spend  a  holi- 
day in  England  and  a  httle  fortune 
in  generosity. 

Daring  tiiese  holiday  trips  he 
never  Utft  his  aster  or  bis  parents; 
and  as  his  sister  and  his  parents 
had  chosen  to  ran  down  to  Fal- 
mouth, like  a  dntifdl  fellow,  Wash- 
ington followed  them  thither. 

We  were  at  bieakfiBMBt  when  Wash- 
ington burst  in  upon  us  at  Fal- 
mouth; and  breakfiBst  at  Falmouth 
was  not  such  an  early  meal  as  it 
might  have  been.  With  that  gene- 
rosity and  unselfishness  which  is 
charaeleristic  of  Englishmen,  I  will 
at  once  exculpate  the  whole  male 
portion  of  our  party. 

The  irrepressible  Edgar  was 
bound  to  wake  us  in  the  morning ; 
and  we  were  always  on  our  backs 
in  the  sea  by  eight  o'clock.  But 
the  women!  oh,  those  dear  women! 
Well,  generally  speaking,  we  had 
but  little  to  complain  o£  They 
were  cheerful,  and  bore  the  &tigue 
which  strong-legged  men  not  un« 
frequently  impose  upon  fragile  wo- 
men without  a  murmur ;  but  they 
were  not  proof  against  the  nightly 
exercise  of  that  highly  necessary, 
but  eminently  female  organ,  the 
human  tongue  I  At  ten  o'clock,  de- 
ceptive yawns  ware  chorussed  forth, 
to  take  us  off  our  guard,  and  per- 
suade us  to  allow  them  to  go  to 


bed.  Not  an  objection  was  urged. 
The  poet  perhaps  looked  somewhat 
more  lachrymose  than  usual,  and 
the  orator  came  to  a  dead  stop  in  an 
able  harangue  on  the  'Female 
Franchise;'  but  Isaline's  hand  was 
squeezed  iby  the  poet,  and  Maude's 
eyes  followed  by  the  orator,  without 
another  murmur  at  ten  o'clock. 

I  am  bound  to  confess  that  I  don't 
altogether  consider  that  the  poet  or 
the  orator  were  quite  fairly  Seated. 
Ten  minutes  after  Isaline  and  Maude 
had  disappeared  in  a  bevy  of  beauty, 
the  strangest,  wildest,  and  most  dis- 
cordant noises  proceeded  from  the 
upper  regions. 

That  strange  freemasonry  of  wo- 
men which  exists  solely  and  entirely 
in  the  upper  regions,  at  a  time 
which  should  be  devoted  to  sleep 
and  rest,  puts  aside  all  thoughts 
of  weariness  previously  assumed. 
Then  conunence  the  monkey-tricks 
of  women.  They  wrestle  and  they 
plunge,  tb^  damce  fandangoes  in 
limited  attire,  they  vie  with  one 
another  in  feats  of  agUity  and  fancy ; 
they  talk,  they  do  one  another's 
hair,  they  do  anything  but  that  for 
which  they  left  the  sweet  society  of 
niales^go  to  sleep ! 

The  consequence  is  that,  having 
devoted  the  freshest  part  of  the 
night  to  folly,  they  have  to  devote 
the  smallest  part  of  the  night  to 
sleep.  And  when  the  morning 
comes,  the  great  hungry  men, 
ravenous  from  fresh  air  and  salt 
water,  have  to  fling  pebbles  and  sand 
and  gravel  up  at  the  windows  in  the 
upper  regions,  from  which  the  tan- 
talizing syrens  will  never  emerge. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Wash- 
ington found  us  at  breakfast  at  an 
unorthodox  hour,  and  we  all  got 
outrageously  chaffed.  We  very  soon 
saw  that  there  were  to  be  no  half- 
measures  with  Washington.  He  did 
not  intend  allowing  the  grass  to 
grow  under  his  feet  His  stay  in 
England  was  limited,  and  that  which 
had  to  be  done  was  evidently  to  be 
'  done  quickly.' 

I  must  say  that,  up  to  the  time  of 
Washington's  arrival,  we  had  not 
made  the  most  of  our  tim&  In  the 
little  smoking  room  in  which  the 
expedition  had  been  arranged,  all 
sorts  of  excursions  and  drives^  and 
B  a 


62 


In  ike  Heart  of  the  Earth. 


pic-nics  and  sails,  had  been  mapped 
out 

Bnt  once  at  Falmouth,  vre 
dreamed  away  our  time.  It  was 
yeiy  pleasant.  We  bathed  till 
break&st,  and  basked  till  lunch,  and 
lounged  till  dinner,  and  sang  and 
strolled  till  tea,  and  talked  till  bed- 
time ;  and  so  day  after  day  slipped 
away,  and  Washington  found  us 
at  breakfast  prepared  for  another 
day's  dream. 

I  suppose  we  wanted  a  leader. 
Energy— that  is  to  say,  personal 
energy— was  out  of  the  question. 
Washington  assumed  the  yacant 
dlrectorato  and  led  us.  It  was  a 
case  of 

'IbimusI  Iblmns!  ntcumque  precedes  WasU- 
iDgton.' 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  Wash- 
ington who  persnaded  me  to  go 
into  the  heart  of  the  earth. 

He  did  not  begin  rashly  or  im- 
petuously. He  did  not  frighten  me 
with  an  accurate  description  of  the 
'  man-engine,*  and  the  *  bucket,'  and 
the  interminable  ladders ;  but  in  a 
light  and  airy  way — before  all  the 
girls,  by-the-by— he  led  the  conver- 
sation gently  up  to  mmes  and 
mining  adventures.  He  told  us 
how  the  Princess  of  Wales,  and  a 
talented  contributor  to  'Punch,' 
had  been  down  the  Botallack ;  and 
then  taking  stock  of  me,  after  a 
preliminary  examination  of  my  bi- 
ceps and  a  general  examination  of 
other  muscular  deyelopments,  he 
asked  me  how  I  should  like  to  be 
introduced  to  the  Wheal  Isabel. 

*  Of  all  things  in  the  world,'  I  said, 
'  provided  she  be  young  and  good- 
looking.  But  why  Wheal?  Is  it 
a  sign  of  endearment  or  a  token  of 
respect  ?  Am  I  to  understand  from 
the  mysterious  word  Wheal  that 
Isabel  is  a  Cornish  Countess,  or  a 
Gipsy  Queen?  Introduce  me  to  the 
Wheal  Isabel?  Certainly!  Wheal 
or  woe  Isabel,  could  anything  un- 
fortunate be  synonymous  with  such 
a  charming  appellation  ?' 

'  Hold  hard  1'  he  said ;  *  this  Cor- 
nish air  of  ours  has  filled  you  too 
full  of  ozone.  Restrain  your  ardour. 
Isabel  is  not  an  enchanting  maiden 
fioshioned  by  your  poetical  ima- 
gination.    She   is   no   gardener's 


daughter,  no  maid  of  Tregedna,  no 
coast  mermaiden,  no  Cornish  beauty. 
8he[i8  black,  deep,  dirty,  and  ter- 
rible. She  will  cause  you  a  ten- 
mile  ride,  trouble,  fatigne,  and  some 
little  expense ;  but  the  Wheal  Isabel 
is  worth  knowing.' 

'  In  heaven's  name,  then,'  said  I, 
'  who  or  what  is  she  ?' 

'  The  Wheal  Isabel/  said  he,  '  is 
one  of  the  largest  mines  in  this 
magnificent  district;  and  if  you 
would  like  to  be  introduced  to  her 
you  shall.' 

'  Coal  ?*  said  I,  shuddering. 

'  Or  tin  ?'  echoed  the  mucilaginous 
Armstrong. 

'  Gold,  no  doubt,'  whispered  Isa- 
line  in  my  ear. 

'  Nonsense,'  said  Washington ; 
'  copper.' 

I  very  soon  saw  that  at  this  very 
early  period  of  the  entertainment 
there  was  no  getting  out  of  an 
introduction  to  Wheal  Isabel. 

The  curiosity  of  the  women  was 
fairly  aroused.  And  that  was  quite 
enough. 

In  an  instant  the  programme  was 
mapped  out  entirely  to  the  satisfac* 
tion  of  the  girls.  Wo  were  all  to 
ride  over  to  the  Wheal  Isabel  under 
the  mentorship  of  Washington,  and 
I  was  to  be  the  unhappy  victim 
sacrificed  on  the  copper  altar. 

Friend  Washington,  who,  at  one 
time,  had  been  all  cockahoop  about 
the  dangers  and  daring  of  the  expe- 
dition, got  out  of  it,  or  rather  of  the 
fatiguing  part  of  it,  with  that  irri- 
tating air  of  indifTerence  peculiar 
to  leaders  of  expeditions. 

'You  know,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
have  seen  these  kind  of  things  so 
often  before,  that  it  is  really  hardly 
worth  while  the  trouble  of  changing 
one's  clothes  for  it,'  said  he,  with 
that  charming  tone  of  superiority 
which  is  so  comforting  to  the  man 
who  knows  that  he  is  about  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself  for  tho  benefit  of 
his  fellow-creatures.  '  But  I  would 
advise  you  to  go  down,'  he  added, 
suspicious  that  I  would  back  out  of 
it  at  the  last  moment.  '  You  will 
never  regret  it.' 

And  then  he  cleverly  magnified 
me  into  a  hero,  whereat  the  girls 
said  pretty  and  complimentary 
things,    and   the    expedition   was 


In  the  Eeart  of  (he  Earth. 


63 


€nal]y  arranged.  Oar  cayalcade 
was  not  altogether  pretty  to  look 
at,  bat  I  think  it  may  be  safely 
tanned  a  good  one  to  go.  Falmouth 
WBS  not  great  in  saddle-horses. , 

We  had  a  'bos-horse,  a  hearse- 
horse,  a  fly-horse,  a  wall-eyed  horse, 
and  a  broken  pummel.  With  these 
excellent  assistants  to  a  ten-mile 
ride  along  the  Cornish  roads,  we 
Marted,  amidst  much  laughter  of 
parents,  and  cheering  of  neighbour- 
ing butcher  boys,  on  our  journey  to 
the  Wheal  Isabel. 

Very  black  and  barren  grew  the 
land  as  we  neared  the  Queen  of 
Oopperdom.  The  trees  somehow 
or  other  left  off  growing;  the  fields 
seemed  sown  with  ashes  instead  of 
grass;  tall  chimneys  emitted  huge 
Yolumes  of  smoke,  and  deserted 
shafts,  broken  wheels,  and  grimy- 
looking  monsters  met  us  at  every 
turn. 

When  four  cross  roads  met  amidst 
A  labyrinth  of  shafts  and  out-houses 
in  the  centre  of  a  blackened  heath 
we  drew  rein. 

*  I  think  this  must  be  the  place/ 
said  Washington.  Ho  was  right. 
A  stalwart  Ck>rni8hman  came  out  to 
meet  us,  and  to  him  we  presented 
our  credentials,  addressed  to  the 
Captain  of  the  Mine. 

The  captain  was  somewhat  dis- 
appointed, I  think,  when  he  found 
that  we  were  not  all  to  be  indoc- 
trinated into  the  mysteries  of  min- 
ing. Miners  are  after  all  bat  men, 
ssaa  the  laughing  merriment  of  our 
joyous  girls  had  abready  won  over 
the  rough  heart  of  the  honest 
miner. 

'  No,  it  is  only  this  gentleman,* 
said  the  treacherous  Washington, 
with  the  old  tone  of  superiority 
4igain.  '  I  have  been  down  mines 
scores  of  times.' 

This  was  all  very  well  of  Washing- 
ton vaunting  his  superiority  in  this 
way,  but  why  should  he,  by  impli- 
-oation,  assert  that  I  was  a  fool  be- 
cause I  was  a  novice,  and  because  I 
had  not  been  down  a  mine  ? 

I  was  quite  prepared  to  go  through 
all  the  dirty  work,  but  I  wanted  to 
be  thought  a  hero,  not  a  jackass. 

The  girls  stood  by  me  bravely. 
Their  sympathy  relieved  me  from 
4K>me  of  the  humiliation  I  felt,  and 


th^  seemed  determined,  at  all 
events,  that  I  should  not  go  down 
into  the  heart  of  the  earth  without 
a  cheer. 

I  was  handed  over  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  a  sub-captain,  who  hinted 
that  it  would  be  as  well  if  two  other 
miners  were  told  off  ps  a  private 
escort,  to  guard  me  through  the 
lower  regions. 

'  It's  as  well  to  have  two  or  three 
with  you,  sir,'  said  he;  '  they  treat 
you  with  more  respect  down  below, 
and  they're  a  rough  lot,  I  can  tell  you.' 

I  assented,  of  course.  At  such  a 
time  it  would,  by  no  manner  of 
means,  be  politic  to  dissent  from 
anything  or  anybody. 

For  the  next  hour  or  so  my  life 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  slaves  of 
the  Wheal  Isabel. 

The  sub-captain  led  me  into  a 
little  out-house,  where  he  personally 
superintended  my  toilette.  I  had 
imagined  that  it  would  merely  be 
necessary  to  put  a  rongh  canvas  suit 
over  my  ordinary  clothes.  But  I  was 
very  soon  disabused  of  this  notion. 

'  We  must  have  everything  off, 
sir,*  said  my  guide,  in  a  soothing 
medical  tone,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
operate  on  me.  'It's  an  awfully 
dirty  place  down  there.' 

The  costume  will  bear  descrip- 
tion. I  was  first  encased  in  flannel, 
clean,  of  course ;  and  over  this  came 
an  old  clay-stained,  muddy,  stiff 
miner's  suit  My  feet  were  wrapt 
in  two  flannel  dusters  and  then 
thrust  into  a  pair  of  old  miner's 
shoes,  miles  too  big  for  me.  On  my 
head  was  placed  a  very  stiff  billy- 
cock hat,  literally  as  hard  as  iron, 
smeared  with  tallow  grease.  On  the 
brim  in  front  the  captain  dabbed  a 
lump  of  clay,  and  into  this  he  stuck 
a  farthing  rushlight.  About  half  a 
dozen  more  rushlights  were  sus- 
pended to  my  waist,  and  I  was  then 
pronounced  ready  for  action. 

On  our  way  across  the  open  to 
the  hat  in  which  our  party  was 
resting,  my  attendant  asked  me 
which  way  I  intended  to  go  down. 
Asked  me,  indeed  I  as  if  I  knew 
what  the  good  fellow  was  talking 
about.  I  was  only  anxious  not  to 
look  a  fool  and  to  do  exactly  what 
I  was  told.  I  must  own  that  I  felt 
a  perfect  child  in  his  hands. 


5i 


In  the  Heart  of  (he  Barth, 


'  Will  yon  go  down/  said  he,  'by 
the  ladders,  or  by  the  bncket,  or  by 
the  man-engine  ?* 

He  might  jnst  as  well  have  asked 
me  the  Hindostanee  for  Wheal 
Isabel. 

*  The  ladders,'  said  he,  by  way 
of  explanation,  '  are  the  most  tiring 
and  the  most  tedious.  Yon  will 
take  a  good  hour  to  get  down  by 
the  ladders.  The  bucket  is  a  dirty 
way  of  going  down ;  besides,  in  this 
mine,  it  is  used  alone  for  bringing 
up  the  rubble  and  the  ore,  and  any 
interference  with  this  arrangement 
stops  the  working  of  the  mine. 
Now  the  man-engine  is  the  quickest 
way,  and  it  is  the  way  all  the  men 
here  go  down.  Would  you  like  to 
try  it?'  and  then  he  added,  looking 
at  me,  *  but  you  must  be  rery  careful.' 

This  was  the  first  suggestion  that 
had  been  made  to  me  that  there  was 
any  danger  in  my  undertaking. 
Now  the  principle  of  the  bucket 
and  the  ladders  I  naturally  under- 
stood, but  I  had  no  more  idea  what 
a  man-engine  was  than  the  man 
in  the  moon.  My  mentor,  for  some 
mysterious  reason  of  his  own,  kept 
on  quietly  pressing  the  superior  ad- 
vantage of  the  man-engine.  And  so 
I  consented.  If  I  had  only  known 
then,  at  that  quiet  moment,  away 
from  the  laughing  girls  and  the 
heroic  Washington,  what  I  was  un- 
dertaking, and  the  mortal  agony  I 
was  about  to  endure,  my  prudence 
would  most  certainly  have  got  the 
better  of  my  pride,  and  I  should 
have  been  whizzed  quietly  down  in 
the  dirty  bucket. 

But  as  it  was,  in  my  ignorance 
and  in  the  innocence  of  my  heart, 
I  decided :  for  the  man-engine ;  and 
in  a  minute  more  I  was  ushered 
into  the  hut 

My  quaint  appearance  was  the 
signal  for  a  loud  burst  of  laughter. 
Some  would '  never  have  known  me, 
would  you  ?'  others  pronounced  me 
a  fright;  but  one  little  soft  angelic 
Yoice  declared  me  to  be  'a  hand- 
some young  miner.' 

'You're  sure  you  are  all  right?' 
said  the  same  little  confiding  voice. 
'  Have  you  had  some  brandy  ?' 

'  All  right,'  said  I,  feeling  very 
pale.  '  I  should  think  so.  Particu- 
larly now.' 


'  But  how  are  you  going  down  ?' 
said  the  sweet  voice ;  '  the  captain 
has  been  telling  us  all  about  it' 

'  By  the  man-engine.' 

'  For  mercy's  sake,  don't !  if  s  very 
dangerous  if  you're  not  accustomed 
to  it    He  told  me  so.' 

That  tone  of  entreaty  persuaded 
me  more  than  ever  that  I  would 
take  the  most  dangerous  route.  It 
was  very  brutal,  I  know,  but  at  such 
a  time  I  would  sooner  have  died 
than  shown  the  white  feather. 

They  escorted  me  towards  the 
infernal  machine  like  a  criminal  on 
his  road  to  execution. 

'  Set  it  a  going.  Bill,'  said  the 
sub-captain;  and  then  in  a  few 
terse  sentences  he  explained  the 
principle  of  the  engine. 

Two  parallel  horizontal  bars  pro- 
vided with  iron  steps  at  intervaui  of 
about  ten  yards,  were  ibr  ever  vrork- 
ing  up  and  down— up  and  down. 
The  method  of  getting  down  the 
shaft  was  by  passing  from  bar  to 
bar  and  fh>m  step  to  step,  the  very 
instant  the  word  'Change'  was 
given.  It  was  essentially  requisite 
to  change  the  moment  the  word  of 
command  was  given,  and  to  make 
no  bungle  or  shuffle  about  the  ope- 
ration. The  engine  waited  for  no 
man.  There  was  no  possibility  of 
calling  a  halt,  and  no  saving  hand 
to  catch  one  if  a  miss  was  made. 
All  one's  safety  rested  with  one'a 
self.  One  false  step  or  fiilse  clutch 
at  the  next  rung,  and  it  would  have 
been  all  over  with  me.  Now  this 
fun  was  all  very  well  vnth  the  day> 
light  shining  down  the  shaft,  when 
one  could  see  the  iron  steps  and  see 
the  handles,  but  in  the  pitch  dark- 
ness it  was  simply  awful.  The 
rushlight  in  one's  hat  gave  little  or 
no  light ;  and  it  was  ten  chances  to 
one  if  the  water  dashing  off  the 
sides  of  the  shaft  did  not  extinguish 
it 

They  practised  me  at  first  for  a 
turn  or  two  about  a  hundred  yard& 
up  and  down  the  shaft,  and  even  in 
the  daylight  I  bungled  a  little. 

'  You  must  change  quicker,  sir,' 
said  my  guide ;  '  if  the  iron  steps 
knock  against  you  it  will  be  all  up- 
with  you,' 

I;  was  very  pale,  I  know,  after 
the  first  short  practice.    I  felt  that 


In  Oie  Heart  of  the  Earth. 


65 


I  was  doing  a  madcap  act;  I  know 
that  the  men  ought  to  have  stopped 
me ;  the  little  voice,  now  quite  trem- 
bling, begged  me  not  to  go ;  bnt  I 
bit  my  lips  and  to  wed  I  would  not 
Bfaow  the  white  feather. 

'  Do  you  think  you  are  all  right, 
air?  said  my  guide.  'Will  you 
go  ?    You  must  decide  now  finally.' 

'  AU  right,'  I  said. 

And  then  the  bell  rung,  and  down 
we  went  I  saw  the  little  face— it 
was  the  very  last  thing  I  saw— and 
upon  my  honour  I  really  and  truly 
felt  that  I  should  never  see  liiat 
little  fyuoe  again  except  by  a  mi« 
rac]& 

But  there  was  no  time  then  to 
think   of  anything   but   my   own 


That  terribly  monotonous  word 
'Change'  came  ringing  out  from 
the  dark  depths  of  the  shaft,  uttered 
by  the  sub- captain  on  the  next 
ledge  below  me.  And  I  knew 
that  my  life  depended  upon  every 
change. 

Houn,  days,  years,  yes,  and  cen- 
turies, seemed  to  pass  between 
every  ehanga  It  was  like  a  hide- 
ous nightmare.  The  awful  sus- 
pense between  every  word  of  com- 
mand; the  feeling  that  something 
terrible  might  happen  next  time; 
the  loneliness  of  my  situation,  the 
darkness  of  the  shaft,  the  rush  of 
the  water,  the  glimmer  of  the  msh- 
lights  going  down ;  the  sad  hollow 
echo  of  the  captain's  voice  giving 
the  word  of  command,  and  exhort- 
ing me  to  be  careful,  now  kindly, 
nowfearfally ;  ail  these  things  com- 
bined made  up  as  hideous  a  day- 
dream as  it  is  possible  to  conceive. 

For  full  five  and  twenty  minutes 
I  was  in  this  awful  suspense,  and  in 
that  time  went  througn  about  five 
hundred  changes. 

At  last,  half  blinded  with  beads  of 
cold  perspiration,  and  nearly  dead 
with  firight,  I  heard  the  welcome 
bell  ring  again,  and  I  was  safe  on 
the  first  ledge  of  the  mine. 

The  man-engine  went  no  farther, 
and  the  rest  of  the  journey  had  to 
be  accomplished  by  ladders.  I  never 
told  the  men  what  I  suffered,  but  in 
a  rough  kindly  way  I  was  congratu- 
lated on  my  feat 

'  I  never  thought  you  would  have 


come,  sir,'  said  one.  '  It  frightens 
most  after  the  first  turn.' 

'  Can't  you  signal  up  that  we  are 
all  safe,'  said  I,  thinking  of  the  little 
&ce. 

*  Tes,  sir,  to  be  sure.' 

And  they  did. 

The  signal  came  back  again, 
'Thank  God  I'  and  all  the  miners 
took  off  their  hats  at  the  last  signal. 
They  are  pious  follows,  these  Cornish 
miners. 

I  was  quite  two  hours  away  from 
my  friends,  groping  about,  now  on 
my  hands  and  knees,  now  down 
ladders  from  ledge  to  ledge,  now 
in  a  stooping  position,  now  erect 
in  the  dark  mysterious  corridors  I 
foond  in  the  heart  of  the  earth.  It 
was  hot — stifling  hot,  hotter  than  the 
very  hottest  room  in  a  Turkish  bath. 
But  the  stalwart,  half-clad  men 
working  away  at  the  ore  were  so 
interesting,  and  the  metal  sparkled 
so  on  the  ground,  and  the  scene 
was  so  strange  and  fascinating,  that 
I  could  not  tear  myself  away. 

On  and  on  I  went,  still  for  ever 
walking  on.  I  was  very  thirsty, 
and  would  have  given  anything  for 
a  draught  of  beer.  But  no  stimu- 
lants of  any  kind  are  found  in  the 
heart  of  the  earth.  I  was  allowed 
howerer  to  put  my  mouth  to  the 
bung-hole  of  a  water-barrel,  and 
very  refreshing  was  the  draught. 

'  You  can  walk  on  like  this  for 
hours,  sir,'  said  the  captain,  see- 
ing I  was  tired,  and  still  determined 
not  to  give  in. 

'  Is  it  pretty  much  the  same?' 

'  I  think  you  have  seen  all  now,' 
said  he. 

So  we  went  back. 

'  Which  way  will  you  go?'  said 
my  guide. 

I  was  very  tired. 

'  In  the  bucket,'  I  said,  without 
any  hesitation. 

With  my  pockets  laden  with 
copper  ore,  and  in  the  rough  em- 
brace of  a  stalwart  miner— for  it 
was  close  quarters  for  two  in  the 
bucket— we  were  swung  up  to  the 
daylight. 

Dash  went  the  bucket  against  the 
sides  of  the  shaft,  through  which 
the  water  oozed  and  trickled  and 
splashed.  Lighter  and  lighter  it 
became,  until,  at  last,  I  saw  above 


56 


DolgeUey  and  its  AUradioM, 


me  the  clear^  blue,  cloudless  s^; 
and,  half-dazzled  with  the  glaring 
light,  and  blinking  like  an  old  owl, 
I  arrived  safe  and  sound  on  terra 
firm  a. 

They  greeted  me  with  another 
loud  peal  of  laughter,  louder  and 
merrier  than  the  last  My  appear- 
ance was  certainly  not  prepossessing. 
I  was  covered  with  rod  mud  from 
head  to  foot,  hot,  dishevelled,  wild, 
and  weary.  And  then  *  I  smelt  so 
pah !'  as  Hamlet  says.  However,  a 
refreshing  cold  bath,  a  hair-brush, 
rough  towels,  and  a  change  of 
clothes  soon  made  me  presentable ; 
and  after  an  excellent  luncheon  in 
the  board-room  of  the  owners  of  the 


Wheal  Isabel,  we  were  all  very  soon 

trotting  away  towards  Falmouth. 

•         •         •         •         « 

One  word  more.  A  brooch  made 
from  the  copper  ore  I  brought  up 
from  the  mine  rests  on  the  neck  of 
the  owner  of  the  little  face  which  is 
looking  at  me  as  I  write  from  a 
distant  comer  of  the  room.  Some- 
times when  I  am  out  of  sorts — which 
is  not  very  often  now— I  wake  up 
suddenly  from  a  disturbed  dream 
in  my  old  arm-chair,  and  fancy 
somehow  that  the  little  face  is 
gone,  that  there  is  a  strange  sing- 
ing in  my  ears,  and  from  a  dark 
unearthly  vault  a  voice  keeps  moan* 
ing, '  Change.* 


DOLGELLEY  AND  ITS  ATTEACTIONS. 


DOLGELLET  was  built  in  the 
good  old  times,  ages  before  the 
independent  souls  of  burgesses  were 
vexed  by  the  restrictions  of  local 
boards,  and  when  every  Welshman's 
house  was  not  only  his  castle,  but 
a  castle  he  could  erect,  ver^  cheaply, 
just  where  he  liked  to  pitch  it  I 
use  the  word '  pitch'  advisedly,  for 
the  architecture  of  Dolgelley  has 
been  described,  very  quaintly,  by  an 
old  gentieman,  after  dinner,  with  the 
aid  of  a  decanter  and  a  handftil  of 
nutshells,  thus:  'You  see  this  de- 
canter, that  is  the  church.'  Then 
taldng  the  shells  and  pouring  them 
over  the  decanter,  he  continued, 
'and  these  are  the  houses  1'  And 
if  you  were  to  try  for  a  week  you 
could  not  describe  the  place  better. 
It  can  scarcely  be  said  that  there  is 
a  street  in  the  whole  town,  and  yet 
Dolgelley  is  the  capital  of  Merioneth- 
shire, and  (now)  possesses  two  rail- 
way stations.  The  main  thorough- 
fare in  the  direction  of  one  station  is 
just  12  ft.  6  in.  wide,  and  has  no 
straight  length  of  more  than  a  dozen 
yards;  and  the  inhabitants  are  jubi- 
lant because  they  see  their  way— in 
the  erection  of  a  market-hall— to- 
wards widening  a  right-angle  corner 
to  something  approaching  eighteen 
feet!  The  town,  instead  of  streets, 
comprises  a  series  of  little  squares, 
intersected  by  narrow  lanes,  and  the 
houses  are  wholly  built  of  large. 


heavy  grey  stones,  with  material 
enough  in  them  to  supply  mansions 
for  a  town  twice  the  size,  as  man- 
sions are  now  run  up.  Fancy  all 
this  in  a  place  where,  during  the 
summer  months,  coaches  and  cars 
are  rattling  about  all  the  day  long, 
and  far  into  the  night  too,  and  you 
will  fisincy  a  place  the  reality  of 
which  you  will  find  nowhere  but  at 
Dolgelley. 

I  trust  I  have  made  the  place 
look  quaint  enough,  if  somewhat 
dull  and  heavy  in  its  proportions. 
But  it  is  not  to  study  architecture 
or  to  plan  street  improvements  that 
people  crowd  to  Dolgelley.  The 
town  lies  in  the  very  centre  of  at- 
tractions the  like  of  which  cannot 
be  approached  unless  we  cross  the 
Channel,  and  then  it  is  an  even 
question  whether  they  can  be  sur- 
passed. When  I  speak  of  the  crowds 
that  throng  Dolgelley,  I  refer  chiefly 
to  the  traffic  of  last  summer,  for 
until  that  time  there  was  no  railway 
within  miles  of  it :  now  there  are 
two,  the  London  and  North  Western 
(vid  Cambrian)  and  the  Great  West- 
em.  Both  routes  run  through  charm- 
ing scenery,  but  the  former  goes 
further  into  Wales,  consequently  its 
tourist  tickets  are  more  extensive.  By 
one  or  the  other  passengers  can  book 
for  a  month  from  all  the  great  towns 
of  England  at  exceedingly  cheap 
rates,  and    it  was  noticeable,  last 


rnr:  hfart  uf  the  n.^nTn 


DolgcUey  and  iU  AUraelions. 


67 


summer,  that  tbo  landlords — ihdae 
too  often  dreadful  ogres — were  wise 
in  their  generation,  and,  as  a  rule, 
did  not  disgust  the  tourist  with  out- 
rageous charges. 

But  I  am  traTelling  away  from 
the  attractions  that  surround  Dol- 
gelley.  First  and  foremost  of  course 
arises— 

'  That  form  sabUme,  thatdrawetb  upward  ever 
To  aiiy  points  its  far  receding  dopes- 
Cathedral  mouutaln,  'mid  the  thousand  shrines 
That  lift  their  gorgeous  steeples  all  around, 
Bepletu  with  heavenward  praise,  where  every 

mom 
The  wild  winds  ring  for  worship — ,'  • 

Cader  Idris— to  which  these  lines 
refer—is  indeed  a  glorious  moun- 
tain. Thousands  of  foreigners  (i,  e, 
non-Welshmen,  natives  rarely  go 
up)  hare  ascended  its  slopes,  whilst 
those  who  know  how  to  pronounce 
its  name  can  be  counted  by  dozens. 
'  Have  you  been  up  Eayder  I-dris?* 
you  will  hear  a  cockney  cousin  ask 
over  his  pipe  in  the  billiard-room 
of  the  Ship  Hotel,  naturally  leading 
to  the  subject  he  feels  so  virtuous 
about,  the  achievement  of  the  moun- 
tain. A  little  talk  ensues,  and  per- 
haps the  courteous  landlord  (of  course 
a  Jones)  politely  corrects  a  conple  of 
mistakes  Dy  remarking, '  We  Welsh- 
men always  say  Cad-er  Id-ris,'  and 
the  host  is  right  Then,  as  a  natural 
sequence,  the  talk  follows  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  name,  and  some- 
times a  hot  contest  results.  Some 
say  that  *  Idris'  was  a  warrior,  some 
that  he  was  a  philosopher,  others 
that  he  was  both :  all  that  he  used 
the  mountain  as  an  observatory, 
either  to  keep  his  eye  on  military 
tactics  below,  or  on  tiie  stars  above. 
Then  as  to  '  Gader'  there  is  a  dif- 
ference of  opinion,  those  inclined  to 
the  military  view  holding  that  it 
means  'fortress,'  those  favouring 
the  philosopher  notion  believing  it 
to  mean  'onair.'  The  latter  opi- 
nion is  the  most  generally  received, 
bat  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is 
even  a  Welshman  who  believes  that 
the  Eisteddfod  has  produced  a  pro- 
fessor who  can  fill  such  a  chair  of 
philosophy!  And  this  is  saying 
much,  for  the  Welshmen  of  the  £is- 

♦  From  *  Three  All  Saints'  Summers,*  by 
the  Rev.  W.  Wakham  How,  of  Whitting- 
ton,  Oswestry. 


teddfodau*  are  by  no  means  defi- 
cient in  self-esteem!  Gader  Idris 
has  formed  a  bone  of  contention  in 
other  ways.  And  in  using  the  word 
bone  I  steer  clear  of  the  geologists, 
who  have  had  their  quarrel  over  its 
rugged  steeps.  A  writer  in  a  semi- 
scientific  periodica],  three  years  ago, 
was  very  angry  with  the  compilers 
of  those  wonderfal  productions  face- 
tiously termed  'Guide-books,'  and 
says:  *It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
Guide-book  writers,  in  describing 
Cader  Idris,  should  copy  the  errors 
of  one  another,  so  as  to  leave  the 
tourist  in  ignorance  of  what  he  may 
really  expect  in  making  the  ascent 
of  the  mountain.'  This  promised 
well,  but  the  writer  left  the  moun- 
tain pret^  much  as  he  found  it,  all 
he  did  being  to  defend  the  theory  of 
'  Watery  Geology'  against  the  belief 
of  'Volcanic  Graters.'  He  was 
smarUy  commented  upon  in  the 
'  Merionethshire  Standard'  by  a  local 
geologist,  who  preferred  fire  to  water, 
and  I  think  had  the  best  of  it.  The 
height  of  the  mountain,  too,  is  some- 
times disputed.  Some  authorities 
Elace  it  second  only  to  Snowdon, 
ut  a  larger  number  hold  that  it 
really  is  less  in  altitude  than  Arran- 
Fowddy  (near  Bala),  Bhinog  Fawr 
(between  Harlech  and  Barmouth), 
and  Diphwys,  another  mountain  of 
the  same  district  But  what  it  lacks 
in  height  Gader  assuredly  makes  up 
in  grandeur,  and  by  all  it  is  esteemed 
as  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Gam- 
brian  heights.  I  don't  propose  de- 
scribing the  ascent  of  the  mountain. 
With  the  aid  of  a  stout  walking- 
stick  and  good  lungs  it  may  be  done 
on  two  legs  in  three  hours ;  feebler 
folk  can  readily,  and  without  the 
slightest  feeling  of  danger,  accom- 
plish tiie  same  end  on  four  legs  in 
about  the  same  time.  For  this  pur- 
pose ponies,  that  won't  go  astray  if 
you  try  and  make  them,  can  be  had  at 
the  hotels  at  the  charge  of  six  shillings 
each,  conductor  included,  the  latter 
generally  an  active  boy  who  does 
not  object  to  make  himself  generally 
useful  if  there  is  the  i)rospect  of  a 
small  gratuity.    Gbarming  views  are 

*  'Eisteddfodau'  is  the  plaral  of  Eis- 
teddfod. The  final  's'  atter  the  latter 
woixl  is  a  common  error  made  by  English 
writers. 


58 


DotgeHey  and  Ut  Attractions. 


to  be  obtained  at  TariooB  stages  in 
the  ascent,  which  form  ample  ex* 
cases  for  reeting.  One  or  two  lakes 
are  passed,  notably  Llyn-y-Gader, 
the  '  Lake  of  the  Chair/  where  so 
fine  an  echo  can  be  prodnced  that 
the  wonder  is  the  SwiES  style  of 
cows -horn  mnsic  has  not  been  imi- 
tated. At  the  top  yon  cannot  see 
80  fiir  as  from  Snowdon,  bat  what  is 
to  be  seen  is  more  yaried ;  not  that 
the  view  is  by  any  means  limited. 
Sonth  we  haye  Piimlimon  and  the 
Brecknock  Beacons,  east  the  Arran 
and  Bala  Lake — that  wonderfal 
sheet  of  water  that  is  one  day  to 
snpply  the  town  of  Liyerpool  with 
the  element  it  so  greatly  needs— and 
far  away  beyond  the  Arran  range 
the  Berwyn  is  plainly  yisible,  and, 
on  moderately  clear  days,  that  centre 
of  the  proad  Salopian's  toast, '  the 
Wrekin,'  adds  a  charm  to  the  land- 
scape. To  the  north  Snowdon  shats 
up  the  yiew,  and  westerly  there  is 
the  beaatifiil  bay  of  Cardigan  and 
the  broad  Atlantic.  It  is  even  said 
that  the  Cader  yiew  embraces  more 
distant  attractions;  bat  the  toarist 
telescopes  provided  by  Goide-book 
writers  are  notorioosly  strong  in 
tiieir  magnifying  power,  so  I  prefer 
confining  myself  to  the  capacity  of 
yisions  like  Sam  Weller's,  that  are 
limited  in  their  powers.  And  after 
all  what  does  it  matter?  The  eye 
can  bat  be  filled  with  beauty,  and 
here  the  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  filenzy 
rolling,  may  glance  from  heaven  to 
earth,  from  earth  to  heaven,  to  the 
utmost  content  of  his  heart 

There  are  several  paths  by  which 
you  can  descend  frx>m  the  Chair  of 
Idris.  The  hotel-keepers  of  coarse 
say  that  anlees  yoa  take  a  goide 
yoa  will  speedily  find  very  short 
ones  indeed.  And  there  is  a  mea- 
Bare  of  trath  in  what  they  say,  for 
the  mists  so  saddenly  arise  in  the 
monntain  districts  that  it  is  always 
safer  to  have  a  trustworthy  man  at 
year  elbow  who  knows  his  way  with 
his  eyes  shut.  Still,  I  have  gone  ap 
from  Dolgelley  to  the  top,  and  down 
to  Talyllyn— that  charming  resort  of 
lazy  anglers — ^without  a  goide  and 
without  difficulty,  that  is,  without 
difficulty  in  tracing  the  route,  for 
the  Talyllyn  sAoent  is  veiy  rough 
and  steep.    Another  favoorite  ascent 


is  from  Barmouth  (a  rising  watering- 
place— not  yet  spoiled— visited  by 
Mr.  Mark  Lemon  last  summer,  and 
photographed  in 'Punch').  But  my 
object  is  not  so  much  to  go  into  de- 
tails, which  can  be  gathered  by  the 
yisitors  in  the  several  localities,  as 
to  induce  tourists  who  rush  to  Swit- 
zerland first  to  see  what  'Greater 
Britain'  can  produce;  and  having 
said  so  much  about  Cader  Idris  I 
will  complete  Mr.  How's  exquisite 
description  of  it,  and  proceed  to  note 
a  few  more  of  the  attractions  of  Dol- 
gelley. 

' Let  me  add 

Mjr  pony  voice  to  all  Uie  mighty-  chant 
'I'haL  dowD  Uiy  sculptur'd  aialefl  a  iboasanct 

BtFcams 
Chant  as  ihey  march  white-vested.    TempL& 

vast, 
.Grpat  dome,  instinct  with  awe  and  tbon^t 

profound, 
Whose  slteut  regions  and  unmeasui'd  spsce 
DiBtil  a  sense  of  power  and  ma^m^,— 
Whose  mighty  walls  of  fretted  rock,  and  slop^ 
That  front  all  aspects  of  the  hollow  sky,— 
Whose  forms  tbat  in  their  changes  infinite 
Make  thee  complete  In  unity— whose  vsstness 
And  grandeur,  that  do  unimpaired  embrace 
The  exquistts  perfection  of  each  part 
W^rought  with  minutest  skill—whose  noon- 
day glory 
Scor'd  with  black  shades  of  deep-cut  masonry— 
Whose  vaults  with  lavish   beau^  studded, 

boss'd 
With  cluster  of  huge  angleSk  feather'd  o'er 
With   foliage   of   all   grsce— whose   marble 

floors 
or  airy  lakes,  that  see  the  starry  hosts 
March  nightly  by,— whose  proud  head  wreathed 

round 
With  lightning  storms, — whose  sudden  shout- 
ing rush 
or  hurricane,  and  tumult  of  swift  winds, — 
'NVhose    winter   torrents,  and    whoso  glased 


Yea,  and  whose  gem-Uke  flower  most  delicate 
Nurs'd  in  a  cleft  of  rock  amid  the  spray 
Of  waterfalls— all  gloriously  exalt 
Thine  awful  Architect :  I  would  bow  low. 
Great  mountain,  in  thy  vast  and  silent  courts,. 
Filling  my  soul  with  worship  unto  Him 
Who  built  tliee  for  a  temple  to  His  praise/ 

One  of  the  strong  attractions  of 
Dolgelley  to  a  large  class  of  the 
oommanity  is  the  mineral  wealth  of 
the  district ;  and  many  a  Pater- 
familias, while  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters are  hunting  for  ferns  and  wild 
flowers,  is  himself— with  an  eye  to 
something  more  practical — ^'pros- 
pecting' for  copper,  lead,  or  gold. 
The  gold  fever  in  the  district  half  a 
dozen  years  ago  was  something  re* 


DolgeUep  and  Us  AUraetuma. 


59 


markable>  and  I  am  sarpriged  no 
popular  account  of  it  has  been  pnb< 
fished.  The  natives  tell  me  that 
certain  mines  had  been  worked  for 
lead  and  copper  for  many  years,  the 
ore  obtained  being  carried  away 
into  Flintshire,  where  it  was  smelted, 
small  quantities  of  silver  being  ex- 
tracted. It  was  supposed  that  gold 
existed  in  the  qnaitz  so  plentifully 
found  in  the  rocks— indeed  sundiy 
specks  had  been  visible  to  the  naked 
eye — but  no  one  seemed  to  think 
that  the  quantity  would  pay  for  the 
labour  of  extraction.  Events  proved 
otherwise,  and  now  the  general  im- 
pression is  that  some  of  the  Me- 
rionethshire copper  formerly  smelted 
in  Flintshire  has  been  converted 
into  rather  more  valuable  kettles 
and  saucepans  than  are  usually  to 
be  met  with  in  ordinary  domestic 
life. 

The  gold  fever  commenced  about 
i860,  and  in  this  way.  A  Mr.  Wil- 
liams became  the  purchaser  of  the 
Yigra  and  Ciogau  mine,  which  is 
situated  in  a  narrow  valley  in  the 
mountains,  five  miles  from  Dolgelley 
on  the  Barmouth  road.  This  had 
been  worked  for  copper  for  a  con- 
siderable period,  but  Mr.  Williams 
tried  for  gold.  Curious  stories  are 
told  of  the  hopes,  fears,  and  disap- 
pointments of  the  owner  and  his 
manager,  John  Parry,  when  one 
morning — ^it  is  said  on  the  very  day 
they  had  agreed  to  abandon  the 
search,  ruin  staring  tiiem  in  the  face 
— Parry  made  such  a  discovery  as 
turned  the  heads  of  the  whole  com- 
munity. The  excitement  was  par- 
donable, for  in  a  'bunch'  he  turned 
out  what  proved  to  be  thirty-six 
ihouaand  pounds  worth  of  gddl  At 
once  the  fever  raged.  Nothing  was 
talked  of  by  day  or  dreamed  of  by 
night  but 

^  *Oo1d  I  and  gold !  and  gold  wlthoat  end !  * 
Gold  to  lay  by,  and  gold  to  spend, 
Qold  to  give,  and  gold  to  lend. 

And  reveraiona  of  gold  in/uturo !' 

To  say  that  the  day  of  discovery 
was  'marked  by  a  white  stone'  in 
the  history  of  Dolgelley  would 
merely  be  stating  the  literal  fact, 
for  soon  every  man  you  met  would 
have  a  lump  of  quartz  in  his  pocket 
and  a  scheme  in  his  head,  the  reali- 
zation of  which  would  make  him 


the  hero  of  a  new  El  Dorado.  The 
landlords  who  had  possession  of  the 
heights  into  the  sides  of  which  the 
gold-seekers  wished  to  burrow  were 
besieged  for  leases.  Cabinet  minis- 
ters and  leading  statesmen  came 
down  to  Dolgelley  to  join  in  the 
search  for  gold.  One  of  the  most 
democratic  of  Radicals,  and  one  of 
the  most  popular  men  in  England, 
became  the  chairman  of  a  company 
under  agreement  with  a  Conserva- 
tive of  tiie  Conservatives,  and— so- 
cially—the  most  popular  man  in 
Wales.  Yes;  for  once  John  Bright 
and  Sir  Watkin  Wynn  were  in  the 
same  lobby,  and  the  Castell-Cam- 
Dochan,  the  mine  in  question,  held 
out  when  all  the  others,  save  one, 
had  collapsed.  Capitalists  sank 
their  manufactured  gold  in  the  hunt 
for  the  raw  material,  and  limited 
liability  companies,  with  almost  un- 
limited resources,  put  up  the  per^ 
fection  of  machinery,  engaged  the 
most  knowing  hands,  native  and 
foreign,  and  thought  they  were  lay- 
ing the  foundation  of  colossal  for- 
tunes. 

But,  alas  for  the  dreamers  and  the 
workers!  The  finding  of  the  nuggets 
at  Ciogau  was  a  piece  of  good  fortune 
not  to  be  repeated.  True,  that  com- 
pany did  net  a  profit  of  20,000^.  a 
year  for  two  or  three  years  after,  but 
the  bulk  of  the  new  ventures  were 
failures,  and  now  even  the  Vigra 
and  Ciogau  barely  pays  its  working 
expenses.  The  others  are  all  closed. 
'Ah,  sir,'  said  an  intelligent  police- 
officer  to  me  one  night  as  I  smoked 
my  pipe  on  his  beat  at  Dolgelley, 
'  if  uiey  had  looked  in  their  Bibles 
they  would  have  found  that  gold 
was  not  to  be  discovered  like  other 
metals.'  This  was  a  Cave-of-Adnl- 
1am  allusion  to  me  — I  wonder 
whether  Mr.  Bright  had  thought  of 
it— so  I '  gave  it  up.'  The  sergeant 
explained:  'Don't  you  know,  sir,  it 
says  in  Job,  "There  is  a  vein  for 
the  silver  and  a  place  for  gold"  ?  so 
we  are  not  led  to  expect  to  follow 
it  upas  we  can  some  other  mine- 
rals.^ This  is  true,  as  the  specu- 
lators found  it  Many  mines  were 
opened— the  Imperial,  the  Sove- 
reign, the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  Saint 
David,  the  Cambrian,  the  East  Cam- 
brian, <&c.  &o.  Speedily  the  hill-sides 


60 


DclgeUey  and  Us  AUraclions, 


resoundod  with  the  olang  of  the  iron 
stamps  crashing  the  quartz,  and  all 
VTBS  life,  hope,  and  activity.  Like 
dogs,  the  mines  had  their  day. 
Their  big  names  were  of  no  avail, 
and  it  was  soon  found  that- the  *  Im- 
perial* quartz  yielded  but  a  very 
short  measure  of  gold ;  the  patron 
saint  of  Wales  was  not  propitiated 
by  the  venture  dedicated  to  St.  Da- 
vid ;  the  '  Sovereign'  absorbed  more 
of  its  namesake  than  it  produced 
stuff  to  make ;  and  the  East  Gam- 
briau,  having  produced  little  under 
the  'stamps'  of  iron,  soon  came 
under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer. 
Yigra  and  Ologau  is  still  worked, 
and  every  now  and  then  other  ven- 
tures are  revived.  Visitors  to  the 
district  will  do  well  to  explore  some 
of  these,  and  they  may,  as  I  have 
done,  occasionally  pick  up  a  bit  of 
quartz  containing  visible  specks  of 
the  genuine  metal :  they  will  always 
insure  a  charming  walk. 

And  it  is  in  charming  walks  and 
rides  that  Dolgelley  is  so  especially 
attractive.  You  cannot  go  out  from 
the  town,  in  any  direction,  without 
being  surprised  into  some  new 
beauty.  Taking  the  road  to  Ma- 
chynlleth for  the  distance  of  a  mile, 
a  lane  diverges  to  the  left  to  Dol- 
Berau,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Charles 
Edwards,  ex-member  for  Windsor. 
Opposite  the  gates  leading  to  the 
house  a  pathway  called  the  'Tor- 
rent Walk,'  on  the  Caerynwch  estate, 
winds  up  to  a  considerable  height, 
down  the  side  of  which  falls  a  most 
lomantic  little  river  which  rises  in 
the  Gader  range.  Mr.  Meredith 
Richards  (gtandson  of  the  late  Baron 
Eichards)  kindly  allows  the  public 
to  enjoy  this  beautiful  retreat,  and 
a  more  delightful  way  of  spending  a 
isummer  morning  than  in  visiting  it 
we  cannot  imagine.  The  walk 
mounts,  sometimes  by  steps  and 
sometimes  by  slopes,  always  in  the 
43ound  and  generally  in  sight  of  the 
mountain  torrent,  and  both  Eight 
and  sound  of  the  water  bound^g 
over  and  between  the  unmense  boul- 
ders beneath  are,  on  a  hot  day,  won- 
derfully refreshing.  Seats  are  placed 
at  the  most  attractive  points,  and 
ihe  ferns  and  wild  flowers  are  so 
well  protected  by  the  public  that 
ihey  are  allowed  to  grow  in  the  very 


cracks  of  the  steps.  The  foliage 
around  and  above  affords  an  agree- 
able shade,  and  here  and  there  are 
peeps  into  the  world  without  per- 
fectly bewitching.  After  a  mile  or 
so  of  this  quiet  enjoyment  the  Ma- 
chynlleth road  is  again  reached,  and, 
following  it,  the  explorer  soon 
reaches  the  Gross  Foxes  tavern, 
where  he  may  just  as  well  refresh 
himself  if  he  wishes  to  prolong  his 
walk,  as  I  should  most  earnestly 
advise  him  to  do.  Leaving  the 
Gross  Foxes,  and  going  due  east, 
there  is  a  steep  ascent  of  a  mile, 
when  the  summit  of  one  of  the 
grandest  of  the  minor  passes  of 
Wales  is  attained.  Blvch-Oer- 
ddrws  (Gold-door-pass),  as  this  is 
called,  is  almost  unkuown  to  the 
world  of  tourists.  From  the  summit 
the  view  towards  Dolgelley  must  be 
seen  to  be  appreciated.  Gader  Idris 
rises  a  magnificent  centre  to  the 
panorama,  and  the  *  glorious  estuary 
of  the  Mawddach'*  up  to  Barmouth 
completes  one  of  the  grandest  bits 
of  Welsh  scenery  I  know.  Turning 
your  back  to  this  enchanting  view, 
and  walking  on,  after  another  mile 
of  tolerably  level  ground,  you  begin 
to  descend  the  pass,  a  place  of 
gloomy  grandeur,  where,  it  is  said, 
the  friends  of  Owain  Glyndwr  as- 
sembled after  the  death  of  their 
chief  '  for  the  purpose  of  making 
compacts  to  enforce  virtue  and 
order.'  Some  of  the  mountains  here 
assume  fantastic  shapes,  notably  one 
on  the  right,  which  resembles  a 
crouching  lion  of  huge  proportions. 
The  pretty  valley  of  Gerrist  is  reached 
in  another  mile,  and  the  pedestrian 
enters  on  a  cheerful  turnpike  road, 
with  a  sparkling  river  on  one  side 
and  a  fine  amphitheatre  of  moun- 
tains beyond.  A  mile  or  two  of  this 
lands  the  visitor  at  Dinas  Mawddy. 
Now  if  you  were  to  search  Great 
Britain  over  and  have  to  say  where 
would  be  the  most  unlikely  place  to 
see  a  railway  station  you  would  say 
'  At  Dinas  Mawddy.'  And  yet  there 
you  find  one.  The  place  is  perhaps 
the  smallest  city  in  the  world,  in- 
deed any  one  might  be  pardoned  for 
calling  it  a  very  insignificant  village, 
but  city  it  is,  as  the  word  'dinas' 

*  So  described  by  the  late  Mr.  Justice 
Talfourd  in  hi&  *  Vacation  Rambles.* 


DolgeUey  and  its  AUraetioHB, 


61 


implies.    When  you  once  get  there 
from  the  Cold-H^oor-pass  yoa  may 
natnially  wonder  how  you  are  to 
find  another  door  for  egress,  for  the 
hamlet  is,  to  all  appearanoe,  quite 
shut  in  by  mountains.    The  very 
noveliy  of  its  position  holds  people 
there  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  summer, 
especially  if  they  are  fond  of  Ihe 
gentle  art,  for  the  Boyey,  one  of  the 
best  fishing  rivers  in  Wales,  runs 
through  the  valley.    To  Sir  Edmund 
Buckley,  M.P.  for  Newcastle-under- 
Lyme,  Dinas  owes  its  railway.  That 
gentleman  is  the  great  landowner  of 
the  district,  has  built  a  mansion  at 
the  head  of  the  city,  and  has  made 
the  line  at  his  own  cost,  chiefly  for 
the  development  of  the  slate  traffic. 
The  county  abounds  in  minerals, 
and  many  distinguished  Englishmen 
have  their  fingers  in  Merionethshire 
mineral  pies  1    I  may  say,  in  passing, 
that  the  late  Lord  Palmerston  was 
the  chairman  of  a  company  at  Festi- 
niog,  and  I  have  heard  an  old  miner 
tell  with  glee  how  he  clothed  the 
genial  lord  with  suitable  raiment, 
and  stuck  a  candle  into  his  hands, 
to  arm  him  for  an  exploration  of  the 
levels.    But  this  is  a  digression.    Sir 
Edmund   Buckley's   railway   runs 
through  Mallwyd  and  Gemmes,  a 
couple  of  Dovey  fishing  stations,  to 
the  Cambrian  system,  a  distance  of 
seven  miles.    By  means  of  this  line 
Dinas,  where  a  few  years  ago  not  a 
word  of  English  was  spoken,  has 
been  introdaced  to  the  outer  world. 
I  remember  one  day  standing  on  IJie 
side  of  one  of  the  hills  that  shut  in 
Dinas  with  a  farmer  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood who  had  lived  there  all 
his  life,  and  his  son  who  had  just 
returned  from  a  year's  residence  in 
London.    Jones  junior's  'compari* 
sons  were  odorous,'  and  his  nose 
turned    up  at    everything  Welsh. 
The  London  he  had  left  seemed  to 
be  almost  like  the   London  Dick 
WhittiDgton  expected  to  fiud.    At 
last  Jones  senior  cut  the  lad  short 
by  pointing  to  the  grand  old  moun- 
tains around,  which  the  setting  sun 
had  lit  up  with  a  halo  of  gold,  and 
asking  him, '  John,  did  you  see  any- 
thing like  this  in  London  ?'    John 
hadn't,  and  we  all  silently  enjoyed 
the  wonderful  transformation  scene. 
I  hinted  in  the  earlier  part  of  my 


paper  that  Englishmen  made  rather 
a  mess  of  Welsh  names.  It  has  often 
occurred  to  me  that  the  Guide-book 
people  would  do  a  great  service  to 
Hie  travelling  public  if  they  would 
give  an  index  of  names  of  Welsh 
towns,  villages,  mountains,  streams, 
and  passes,  with  the  proper  pronun- 
ciation  attached.    The  queries  of 
tourists  are  sometimes  perplexing. 
One  day  I  was  journeying  by  the 
Cambrian  railway  from  Newtown  to 
Machynlleth,  when  a  gentleman  in 
the  carriage  asked  me  where  he  was 
to  change  for  Malrved.    I  said  I 
knew   Wales  pretty   well,    but  I 
thought  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take; at  least  there  was  no  such 
place  as   Malwed  known  to  fame. 
He  replied,  *  Oh,  yes,  there  must  be, 
for  I  am  advised  that  there  is  a 
public  conveyance  from  one  of  the 
stations  to  it'    I  called  the  guard, 
and  asked  him.   '  Malwed,  Malwed,' 
he   muttered ;  '  blest  if  the  gent 
mustn't  mean  MatUewed*  And  the 
gent  did—Mallwyd,  the  fishing  sta- 
tion on  the  Dovey,  being  the  re- 
quired   haven.    This  difficulty  of 
pronunciation  has  been  got  over  in 
some  places  by  the  slaughter  of  the 
Welsh  entirely,  and  the  adoption  of 
an  English  approximation  to  the 
sound.    Thus  in  one  of  the  best 
known  of  valleys  the  guards  and 
porters  at  the  railway  station  call 
out '  Llangol-len.'    What  would  the 
bard  who  wrote — 

*  While  the  maid  of  Ilangullen  smiles  sweetly 
on  me/ 

say  if  he  could  hear  his  lines  thus 
barbarized  ? 

But  I  have  strayed  from  Dolgel- 
ley,  and  as  we  are  at  Dinas  we  may 
as  well  make  a  detour  and  go  back 
by  way  of  Bala.  You  will  get  about 
as  good  a  notion  of  Welsh  scenery  in 
this  walk  as  in  thrice  the  distance 
on  most  of  the  beaten  tracks.  First 
you  have  a  pass,  BwlohygroeSf  de- 
scribed by  the  Guide-boobs  as  '  ele- 
vated and  terrific  1'  then  a  mountain, 
Airan  Benllyn— -which,  however, 
you  do  not  ascend:  then  a  water- 
fall ;  and  lastly  a  lake  with  a  river 
running  throiujh  it !  Once  at  Bala 
the  Great  Western  Eailway  Com- 
pany will  take  you  to  Dolgelley  in 
an  hour. 

These  railways  rather  bother  old 


62 


DolgeUen  tmd  Ua  AitracUonB. 


stagers  who  used  to  '  do'  Wales  by 
coach  and  walking-stick.  Occasion- 
ally  yon  see  them  with  their  repre- 
sentatires  of  this  generation,  fight- 
ing their  battles  o'er  again,  and 
shaking  their  heads  oyer  the  effemi- 
nacy of  first-class  cushions.  They 
hardly  know  where  they  are,  and 
the  Guide-books  don't  help  them, 
for  the  latter,  instead  of  being  en- 
tirely rewritten,  are  patched;  old 
and  new  routes  being  so  mixed  as 
to  perplex  the  sons  and  utterly  to 
confound  the  fathers.  '  Ah,  my  boy/ 
I  heard  an  old  gentleman  say  to  his 
grandson,  one  day  when  the  train 
pulled  up  at  a  station  between  Bala 
and  Dolgelley,  '  I  remember  this 
place  (Drwsynant),  but  we  walked 
to  it  from  Dolgelley,  and  earned  the 
oalrcake  and  erw-da  we  enjoyed  at 
the  inn !  Very  likely  the  inn  is  a 
limited-liability  hotel  now,  and  oat- 
cake a  thing  unheard-ofl'  Then 
followed  the  inevitable  sigh  over 
the  world's  changes.  I  advised  the 
grandson,  as  the  evening  was  fine, 
to  get  out  at  Drwsynant,  and  walk 
the  seven  miles  to  Dolgelley.  I 
hinted  that  he  would  find  the  old  inn 
unchanged,  the  oat-cake  still  served, 
and  the  crw  as  good  as  ever.  I  also 
told  him  that  he  would  enjoy  the 
valley  of  the  Wnion  and  the  view  of 
Gader  Idris  as  much  as  any  one  could 
have  done  in  the  last  generation; 
but  the  misguided  youth  preferred 
the  cushions  and  remained.    . 

Drwsynant  puts  me  in  mind  of  a 
funny  story  about  a  former  Sir 
Watkin  Wynn,  said  to  have  been 
tme  in  the  old  coaching  days.  A 
tourist  of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind 
joined  the  coach  at  that  place  on  its 
way  to  Bala.  Inside  he  found  a 
stout  gentleman  enjoying  a  nap. 
When  he  woke,  the  tourist  asked 
whose  was  the  farm  they  were  pass- 
ing. '  Mine,'  was  the  reply,  and  the 
gentleman  again  slept.  Another 
wakeful  moment,  and  another  ques- 
tion :  '  Who  may  that  mountain  be- 
long to?'  'To  me;'  followed  by 
another  doze.  Again  came  a  wake- 
ful moment,  and  the  question, '  Do 
you  know  who  is  the  owner  of  that 
valley  ?'  with  the  answer, '  I  am  not 
sure,  but  I  think  most  of  it's  mine.' 
No  more  questions  were  asked,  but 
when  ^the  coach  reached  Bala  the 


tourist  bolted  into  the  house,  saying 
— '  I  have  been  riding  with  eitfaer  a 
prince,  a  madman,  or  the  devil.' 
'  You  are  right,'  replied  a  native. 
'  Ton  have  beoi  riding  with  the 
'' Prince  tn  Wales  "  and  a  devil-ish 
good  landlord !' 

I  have  not  much  more  to  say 
about  Dolgelley,  or  rather  I  am  not 
going  to  say  much  more.  If  the 
travelled  visitor  wishes  to  revive 
the  sensation  of  a  Swiss  Pa«,  he 
can  do  so  on  the  pathway  winding 
up  the  side  of  Moel  Cynw^ ;  and  at 
the  summit  the  view  towards  Bar^ 
mouth  will  remind  him  of  the  Rhine. 
If  he  wishes  less  arduous  means  of 
attaining  pleasure,  he  can  take  a  oar 
to  Tynygroes,  a  capital  little  hos- 
telry, half  a  dozen  miles  from  Dol- 
gelley, where  he  can  eat  his  dinner 
at  the  head  of  a  delightful  little 
valley,  with  Moel  Orthrwm, '  The 
Hill  of  Sacrifice,'  before  him  and  the 
Mawddach  bounding  along  bdow. 
And  there  are  less  attractive  modes 
of  eigc^ent  than  this,  let  me  re- 
mark, in  propitious  weather.  Alter 
dinner  he  may  take  a  lazy  walk  to 
Bhaiadr  Du,  '  The  Black  Oataraet,' 
a  rather  considerable  water&ll,  with 
everything  that  Nature  can  add  in 
the  snrroondings  to  make  it  beau^ 
tifuL  A  fisurtber  effort— still  within 
the  compass  of  the  lazy— will  bring 
the  tourist  to  PistHl-y-Gain,  a  really 
,  grand  fall.  If  you  want  thoionghly 
'  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  doing  nothing, 
an  hour  or  two  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees  near  these  fidls  on  a  hot 
summer's  day  is,  to  my  mind,  the 
very  perfection  of  it  Under  the 
designation  of  '  Nothing,'  of  course 
I  include  a  pipe,  if  you  are  of  the 
male  kind,  or  a  crochet-needle,  if 
feminine. 

The  Guide-books  tell  us  that  Dol- 
gelley possesses  '  some  good  public 
buildings,'  and  the  county  gaol  is 
mentioned  as  a  sample.  Beautifally 
situated  in  one  of  tne  most  charm- 
ing spots  in  the  neighbourhood,  it 
is  imquestionably  the  ugliest  build- 
ing in  Merionethshire,  which  is  say- 
ing much.  'You  Dolgelley  folks 
can  worship  your  gaol,  if  you  like,' 
said  a  jokmg  visitor  one  day  to  a 
townsman, '  for  you  will  not  break 
the  commandment.'  'How  so?' 
asked  the  other.    'Because  it  is 


DdgeUey  and  Us  AitracHons, 


63 


not  in  the  likeness  of  anything  tbat 
is  in  heaven  aboTe«  or  in  the  earth 
beneath,  or  in  the  waters  nnder  the 
earth/  was  tiie  reply,  with  the  ad* 
dition, '  indeed  it  is  a  precious  deal 
more  unsightly  than  anything  that 
is!'  The  church  is  described  as 
'substantial,  with  a  fine  tower.' 
Substantial  it  certainly  is,  but  of 
the  fineness  of  the  tower  the  less 
said  the  better:  some  of  the  memo- 
rial windows  in  the  nave  are  very 
fine  indeed.  There  is  only  one 
building  in  Dolgelley  that  visitors 
will  care  to  look  at,  and  that  is 
Owain  Glyndwr^s  old  Parliament 
House.  There  it  is  with  its  carved 
timbers  almost  as  sound  as  they 
were  five  hundred  years  ago. 

No  visitor  should  leave  Dolgelley 
without  taking  a  peep  at  the  primi- 
tive method  the  local  manufacturers 
have  of  making  fluinels  and  tweeds. 
The  mills  are  situated  in  some  of 
the  most  romantic  spots  in  the 
valley,  and  form  favourite  subjects 
for  artists.  Inside  they  are  as  novel 
as  outside  they  are  picturesque. 
The  labour  is  performed  entirely  by 
hand,  and  wonderfully  durable  is 
the  Deibric  produced.  The  price  at 
which  the  tweeds  are  sold  is  some- 
thing ridiculous.  I  bought  stuff 
for  a  complete  suit  of  what  was 
termed  the  'Wynnstay  fishing- 
cloth,'  for  sixteen  shillings!  and 
the  cloth  has  this  merit  to  the 
economical—when  it  begins  to  look 
shabby  you  may  turn  your  coat  and 
— as  is  often  the  case  after  this  pro- 
cess—your outward  appearance  will 
be  improved  I  One  of  the  manufac- 
turers (of  course  a  Jones !)  showed 
me  amongst  his  list  of  patrons  the 
names  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  Francis 
Newman,  Mark  Lemon,  and  other 
notabilities,  and  it  seems  more  than 
probable,  now  that  steam  is  applied 
to  locomotion  in  the  county,  it  will 
soon  follow  in  the  manufacture  of 
flannels. 

I  have  said  that  there  is  not  much 
in  Dolgelley  to  attract.  There  is 
one  novelty  attaching  to  the  place 
that  I  must  not  conclude  wiUiout 
mentioning.  One  day  I  asked  my 
landlord  what  was  the  population  of 
the  place?  'Five  thousand,'  he 
replied, '  including  jackdaws  1'  This 
is  quite  true :  there  are  bo  many 


one  would  think  every  man.  woman, 
and  child  in  the  town  must  have  its 
'familiar.'  The  inhabitants  are 
obliged  to  have  their  chimneys 
8W€^  periodically,  whether  they 
have  h^  fires  in  their  grates  or 
not.  to  clear  out  the  nests.  The 
inhabitants  profess  to  detect  two 
distinct  breeds  in  the  daws — 
'  Churchmen  and  Dissenters ' — 
which  they  say  never  mix,  and 
which  never  agree.  I  should  qua- 
lify this  by  saying  that  they  do  agree 
in  one  thing,  which  is  to  make  a 
precious  row  in  the  early  summer's 
morning  just  when  tired  tourists 
want  to  sleep.  It's  of  no  use  to 
swear.  The  Cardinal  of  Bheims 
would  be  powerless  to  make  the 
Dolgelley  daws  moult  a  feather  I 

And  now  to  leave  this  beautiftd 
valley  and  these  glorious  hills.  It 
is  hard  to  do  so,  but  holidays  must 
be  short-lived  luxuries,  if  they  are 
to  be  luxuries  at  all.  My  object  has 
been  to  induce  the  public  to  explore 
one  of  the  most  lovely  spots  in 
Wales;  not  to  gallop  through  the 
Principality  as  if  all  enjoyment  de- 
pended on  seeing  everything  men- 
tioned in  the  .  Guide-books.  This 
spot  I  now  leave,  and— 

'Eonnd  the  purpled  shonlder,  like  a  pageant, 

One  by  one  the  mountain  summits  die : 
Even  08  earth's  narrow  outlines  near  us 
Hide  the  inflnite  glories  from  the  eye. 

*  Homeward  onoe  again.    Ah  I  Tanish'd  moun- 

tainsf- 
Like  old  fticnds,  your  ftces  many  a  day 
O'er  the  bowery  woods  shall  rise  before  me^ 
And  the  level  oom-lands  far  away. 

*  By  the  dreamy  rippling  in  the  sunlight, 

By  the  windy  surglngA  of  the  shore, 
Up    the    thymy  sheep-tracks    through    the 
heather, 
I  must  wander,  glad  of  heart,  no  more. 
'  Yet  I  bear  with  me  a  new  possession ; 

For  the  memoiy  of  all  beauteous  things 
Over  dusty  tracks  of  &tratten'd  duties. 

Many  a  waft  of  balmy  fragrance  brings. 
'  Was  it  thriftless  waste  of  golden  moments 

That  I  watched  the  seaward-burning  west, 

Tbat  I  sought  the  sweet  rare  mountain-flowerfc. 

That  I  climbed  the  rugged  mountain-crest? 

*Iiet  me  rather  deem  tbat  I  have  gathered. 

On  the  lustrous  shore  and  gleamy  hill,    ^ 
Strength  to  bravely  do  the  daily  duty. 
Strength  to  calmly  bear  the  chandng  UL' 

And  with  these  exquisite  lines,  by 
the  Bev.  W.  W.  flow,  I  take  my 
leave  of  the  reader.  A.  B. 


64 

FLO  AND  FIDO. 

(Illustrated.) 

FLO  is  devoted  to  Bketching, 
She's  paintiiig  the  slow-settmg  sun, 
Bnt  Fido,  he  Ma  would  be  stretching 

His  legs  in  a  walk  or  a  mn. 
Flo  finds  it  ample  enjoyment 

The  beanties  of  Nature  to  trace. 
While  Fido— oh,  pleasant  employment- 
Must  gaze  in  his  mistress's  face. 

With  a  whine  now  and  then. 
As  if  asking  her  when 
She  will  lay  by  her  sketch-book  and  come  for  a  race. 

Of  all  save  her  picture  forgetful 
Flo  finds  the  time  rapidly  go. 
While  Fido — rude  dog— has  grown  fretfal. 

And  weary  of  looking  at  Flo. 
He  is  longing  like  mad  for  a  scamper. 
And  wishiog  the  pictmre  were  done; 
The  waiting  cools  down,  like  a  damper. 
His  natural  spirits  and  fun. 

So  he  makes  this  remark. 
In  the  form  of  a  bark, 
'  Pray  leave  off  that  drawing  and  let's  have  a  run  ' 

Oh,  Fido!  would  I  were  your  proxy, 
I'd  sit  there  and  worship  all  day  1 
I'd  dream  of  no  heterodoxy 

Like  wishing  to  scamper  away. 
You— -fortunate  dog— are  permitted 

To  contemplate  Flora  the  fair ; 
Ton  may  stare,  but  you'll  never  be  twitted 
With  hints  that  it's  vulgar  to  stare. 

You  ill-mannered  cur. 
While  you're  sitting  near  lie", 
What  taste  to  be  wishing  that  you  were  elsewhere! 

Why  Fred,  tom,  Augustas,  and  Harry 

(The  ground  that  she  treads  on  they  love) 
Would  be  proud,  sir,  to  fetch  or  to  carry. 

As  you  ao,  her  kerchief  or  glove — 
Would  feel  themselves  amply  rewarded 

By  one  of  the  smiles  she  gives  you. 
They'd  jump  at  the  least  chance  afforded 
To  lie  at  her  feet  as  you  do  1 

Oh,  Fido,  fie,  fie! 
You're  more  happy  than  I, 
If  you  only  your  exquisite  happiness  knew. 

Come,  leave  off  that  fretting  and  whining— 

What  numbers  of  fellows  I  know 
Would,  their  liberty  gladly  resigning. 
Like  you,  become  servants  of  Flo  I 
For  to  gaze  on  sweet  Flora,  unchidden. 

As  long  as  her  sketching  endures. 

Is  a  bliss  which  to  man  is  forbidden— 

Which  your  blest  position  insnres. 

Ay,  with  Flo  for  my  wife 
I  could  lead  '  a  dog^s  life'— 
Provided,  of  course, '  a  dog's  life '  is  like  yours ! 


^ 


65 

M.  OB  N. 

*  SlmQU  dmlllbu  earantiir/ 

By  G.  J.  WHYTE-MELVILLE, 

Afihob  ov  'Diobt  Grand/  'Gbbihb,'  *Ths  Gladiatobs/  xra 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AN  INOUBUB. 


IT  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  any 
gentleman  can  see  a  lady  in  the 
streets  of  London  and  remain  him- 
self nnseen.  In  the  human,  aa  in 
meaner  races,  the  female  organ  of 
perception  is  quicker,  keener,  and 
more  accurate  than  the  male.  There- 
fore it  is  that  a  man  bowing  in  Pall 
Mall  or  Piccadilly  to  some  divinity 
in  an  open  carriage,  and  failing  to 
receive  any  return  for  his  salute, 
sinks  at  once  into  a  false  position 
of  awkwardness  and  discomfiture. 
II  a  man^  son  coup,  and  his  face 
assumes  mcontinently  the  expres- 
sion of  one  who  has  missed  a  wood- 
<cock  in  the  open,  and  has  no  second 
barrel  with  which  to  redeem  his 
ahot.  As  Dick  saw  Lady  Bear- 
warden  in  Oxford  Street,  we  may 
lye  sure  that  Lady  Bearwarden  also 
saw  Dick;  nor  was  her  ladyship 
best  pleased  with  the  activi^  he 
displayed  in  avoiding  her  carriage 
and  escaping  from  her  society.  If 
Mr.  Stanmore  had  been  the  most 
successful  Lovelace  who  ever  de- 
voted himself  to  the  least  remu- 
nerative of  pursuits,  instead  of  a 
loyal,  kindnearted,  unassuming 
gentleman,  he  could  hardly  have 
•chosen  a  line  of  conduct  so  calcu- 
lated to  keep  alive  some  spark  of 
interest  in  Maud's  breast,  as  that 
which  he  unconsciously  adopted. 
It  is  one  thing  to  dismiss  a  lover, 
because  suited  with  a  superior  ar- 
ticle (as  some  ladies  send  away 
five-foot-ten  of  footman  when  six- 
ibot  comes  to  look  after  the  place), 
and  another  to  lose  a  vassal  for 
good,  like  an  unreclaimed  hawk, 
heedless  of  the  lure,  clear  of  the 
jesses,  and  checking,  perhaps,  at 
every  kind  of  prev  in  wilful,  wanton 
flight,  down-wind,  towards  the  sea. 

There  is  but  one  chance  for  a 
man  worsted  in  these  duels  a  Vou- 
trance,  which  are  fought  out  with 

VOL.  XVI.— NO.  XOI. 


such  merciless  animosity.  It  is  to 
bind  up  his  wounds  as  best  he  may, 
and  take  himself  off  to  die  or  get 
well  in  secret.  Presently  the  con- 
queror finds  that  a  battle  only  has 
been  won,  and  not  a  territory  gained. 
After  the  flush  of  combat  comes  a 
reaction,  the  triumph  seems  some- 
what tame,  ungraced  by  presence  of 
the  captive.  Curiosity  wakes  up, 
pity  puts  in  its  pleading  word,  a 
certain  jealous  instinct  of  appropriar 
tion  is  aroused.  Where  is  he? 
What  has  become  of  him?  I  won- 
der if  he  ever  thinks  of  me  now  f 
Poor  fellow  I  I  shouldn't  wish  to  be 
forgotten  altogether,  as  if  we  had 
never  met,  and  though  I  didn't 
want  him  to  like  me,  1  never 
meant  that  he  was  to  care  for  any- 
body else  I  Such  are  the  thoughts 
that  chase  each  otiier  through  the 
female  heart  when  deprived  of  so- 
vereignty in  the  remotest  particular ; 
and  it  was  very  much  in  this  way 
that  Lady  Bearwarden,  sitting  alone 
in  her  boudoir,  speculated  on  the 
present  doings  and  sentiments  of  the 
man  who  had  loved  her  so  well  and 
had  given  her  up  so  unwillingly, 
yet  with  never  a  word  of  reproach, 
never  a  look  nor  action  that  could 
add  to  her  remorse,  or  make  her 
task  more  painful. 

Alas!  she  was  not  happy;  even 
now,  when  she  had  gained  all  she 
most  wished  and  schemed  for  in 
the  world.  She  felt  she  was  not 
happy,  and  she  felt,  too,  that  for 
Dick  to  know  of  her  unhappiness 
would  be  the  bitterest  drop  in  the 
bitter  cup  he  had  been  compelled  to 
drain. 

As  she  looked  round  her  beau- 
tiful boudoir  with  its  blue  satin 
hangings,  its  numerous  mirrors,  its 
redundancy  of  coronete,  surmount- 
ing her  own  cipher,  twisted  and 
twined  into  a  far  more  graceful  de- 

F 


66 


Jf .  w  If, 


ooration  than  the  grirn^  heraldio 
Brain  which  formed  her  husband's 
cognizance,  she  said  to  herself  that 
something  was  yet  required  to  con- 
stitute a  woman's  happiness  beyond 
the  utmost  efforts  of  the  upholder's 
art  —  that  even  carriages,  horses, 
tall  footmen,  quantities  of  flowers, 
unlimited  credit,  and  whole  packs 
of  cards  left  on  tiie  hall  table  e^ery 
day,  were  mere  accessories  and  su- 
perfluities, not  the  real  pith  and 
substance  of  that  for  which  she 
pined. 

Lady  Bearwarden,  more  than 
most  women,  had,  since  her  mar- 
riage, found  the  worldly  ball  at  her 
foot.  She  needed  but  to  kick  it 
where  she  would.  As  Miss  Bruce, 
with  nothing  to  depend  on  but  her 
own  good  looks  and  conquering 
manners,  she  had  wrested  a  large 
share  of  admiration  from  an  un- 
willing public;  now  as  a  peeress, 
and  a  rich  one,  the  same  public  of 
both  sexes  courted,  toadied,  and 
flattered  her,  till  she  grew  tired  of 
hearing  herself  praised.  The  men, 
at  least  those  of  high  position  and 
great  prospects,  had  no  scruple  in 
offering  a  married  woman  that 
homage  which  might  have  entailed 
their  own  domestic  subjugation,  if 
laid  at  a  spinster's  feet;  and  the 
women,  all  except  the  yery  smartest 
ladies  (who  liked  her  for  her  utter 
fearlessness  and  sang-froid,  as  well 
as  for  her  own  sake^,  thought  it  a 
fine  thing  to  be  on  mtimate  terms 
with  'Maud  Bearwarden,'  as  they 
loved  to  call  her,  and  being  much 
afraid  of  her,  made  up  to  her  with 
the  sweet  facility  and  sincerity  of 
their  sex. 

Yet  in  defiance  of  ciphers,  coro- 
nets, visiting  cards,  blue  hangings, 
the  homage  of  lords,  and  the  vas- 
salage of  ladies,  there  was  something 
amiss.  She  caught  herself  con- 
tinually looking  back  to  the  old 
days  at  Ecdesfield  Manor,  to  the 
soft  lawns  and  shady  avenues,  the 
fond  father,  who  thought  his 
darling  the  perfection  of  humanity, 
and  whose  face  lit  up  so  joyfully 
whenever  she  came  into  the  room ; 
the  sweet  delicate  mother  from 
whom  she  could  never  remember 
an  unkind  look  nor  an  angiy  word ; 
the  hills,  the  river,  the  cottagers, 


the  tenants,  the  flower  garden,  the 
ponies,  and  ;the  old  re&ever  that 
died  licking  her  hand.  She  felt 
kindly  towftfds  Mrs.  Stanmore,  and 
wondered  whether  she  had  behaved 
quite  as  well  to  that  lady  as  she 
ought,  recalling  many  a  little  act  of 
triumphant  malice  and  overt  re- 
sistance which  afforded  keen  gratifi- 
cation to  the  rebel  at  the  time.  By 
an  easy  transition,  she  glided  on  to 
Dick  Stanmore's  honest  and  re- 
spectful admiration,  his  courtesy, 
his  kindness,  his  unfiuling  forbear- 
ance and  good -humour.  Bear- 
warden  was  not  always  good-hu- 
moured—she had  found  that  out 
abready.  But  as  for  Dick,  she  re- 
membered how  no  mishap  nor  an- 
noyance of  his  own  ever  irritated 
him  in  the  slightest  degree;  how 
his  first  consideration  always  seemed 
to  be  ker  comfort'and  Jier  happiness ; 
how  even  in  his  deep  sorrow,  de- 
ceived, humiliated,  cut  to  the  heart, 
he  had  never  so  much  as  spoken 
one  bitter  word.  How  nobly  had 
he  trusted  her  about  those  dia- 
monds !  How  well  he  had  behaved 
to  her  throughout,  and  how  fondly 
would  he  have  loved  and  cherished 
her  had  she  confided  her  future  to 
his  care!  He  must  be  strangely 
altered  now,  to  avoid  her  like  tiiis. 
She  was  sure  he  recognised  her,  for 
she  saw  his  face  fall,  saw  him  wince 
—that  at  least  was  a  comfort— but 
never  to  shake  hands,  never  even  to 
stop  and  speak!  Well,  she  had 
treated  him  cruelly,  and  perhaps 
he  was  right 

But  this  was  not  the  actual  griev- 
ance, after  all.  She  felt  she  would 
do  precisely  the  same  over  again. 
It  was  less  repentance  that  pained 
her,  than  retribution.  Maud,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  really  in  love,  and 
with  her  own  husbfmd.  Such  an 
infatuation,  rare  as  it  is  admirable, 
ought  to  have  been  satisfactory  and 
prosperous  enough.  When  ladies 
do  so  far  condescend,  it  is  usually  a 
gratifying  domestic  arrangement  for 
themselves  and  their  lords ;  but  in 
the  present  instance  the  wife's  in- 
creasing affection  afforded  neither 
happiness  to  herself  nor  comfort  to 
her  husband.  There  was  a  '  Some- 
thing'   always    between  them,   a 


Jf.  or  Nm 


67 


shadow,  not  of  saspidon  nor  mis- 
trnst,  forBearwarden  was  frank  and 
loyal  by  nature,  but  of  coldness. 
8he  had  a  secret  from  him,  and  she 
was  a  bad  dissembler ;  his  finer  in- 
stincts told  him  that  he  did  not 
possess  her  fall  confidence,  and  he 
was  too  proud  to  ask  it.  So  they 
lived  together,  a  few  short  weeks 
after  marriage,  on  outward  terms 
of  courtesy  and  cordiality,  but  with 
this  little  rift  of  dissatisfaction  gra- 
dually yet  surely  widening  into  a 
fissure  that  should  rend  each  of 
these  proud  unbending  hearts  in 
twain. 

'  What  would  I  gire  to  be  like 
other  wires,'  thought  Maud,  look- 
ing at  a  half-length  of  her  husband 
in  uniform,  which  occupied  the 
place  of  honour  in  her  boudoir. 
'What  is  it?  Why  is  it?  I  would 
loTC  him  60,  if  he  would  let  me. 
How  I  wish  I  could  be  good—reaUy 
good,  like  mamma  was.  I  suppoeuB 
it's  impossible  now.  I  wonder  if 
it*s  too  late  to  tiy.'  And  with  the 
laudable  intention  of  beginning 
amendment  at  once.  Lady  Bear- 
warden  rang  sharply  to  tell  her 
Bervants  she  was  'not  at  home  to 
anybody  till  Lord  BearwEurden  came 
in,  except'— and  here  she  turned 
away  from  her  own  footman,  that 
he  might  not  see  the  colour  rising 
in  her  fiftoe — *  except  a  man  should 
call  with  some  silks  and  brocades, 
in  which  case  he  was  to  be  shown 
up  stairs  at  once.' 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  ere 
the  paperHsutter  in  Maud's  fingers 
broke  diort  off  at  the  handle.  Her 
grasp  tightened  on  it  insensibly, 
while  she  ground  and  gnashed  her 
small  white  teeth,  to  thmk  that  she, 
with  her  proud  nature,  in  her  high 
position,  should  not  be  free  to  Bd- 
mit  or  deny  what  visitorB  she 
pleased.  So  dandies  of  various 
patterns,  afoot,  in  tea-carts,  and  on 
hacks  more  or  less  deserving  in 
shape  and  action,  discharged  them- 
selves of  their  visiting-cards  at  Lady 
Bearwarden's  door,  and  passed  on 
in  peace  to  fulfil  the  same  rite  else- 
where. 

Two  only  betrayed  an  unseemly 
emotion  when  informed  '  her  lady- 
ship was  not  at  home:'  the  one,  a 
cheerful  youth,  bound  for  a  water- 


party  ftt  Skindle's,  and  fearfal  of 
missing  his  train,  thanked  Provi- 
dence audibly  for  what  he  called 
'  an  unexpected  let  off;'  the  other, 
an  older,  graver,  and  far  handsomer 
man,  suffered  an  expression  of  pal- 
pable discomfiture  to  overspread 
his  comely  &ce,  and,  regardless  of 
observation,  walked  away  from  the 
door  with  the  heavy  step  that  de- 
notes a  heavy  heart  Not  that  he 
had  fidlen  in  love  with  Lady  Bear- 
warden— iJEur  fix>m  it.  But  there 
fvastk  Somebody— that  Somebody  an 
adverse  fate  had  decreed  he  must 
meet  neither  to-day  nor  to-morrow, 
and  the  interval  seemed  to  both  of 
them  wearisome,  and  even  painful. 
But  Maud  was  'Somebody's' dear 
friend.  Maud  either  had  seen  her 
or  would  see  her  that  veiy  after- 
noon. Maud  would  let  him  talk 
about  her,  praise  her,  perhaps  would 
even  give  her  a  message— ^nay,  it 
was  just  possible  she  might  arrive 
to  pay  a  morning  visit  while  he 
was  tiiere.  No  wonder  he  looked 
so  sad  to  forego  this  series  of  chances ; 
and  all  the  while,  if  he  had  only 
known  it.  Fate,  having  veered  round 
at  luncheon-time,  would  have  per- 
mitted him  to  call  at  Somebody's 
house,  to  find  her  at  home,  en- 
chanted to  see  him,  and  to  sit  with 
her  as  long  as  he  liked  in  the  well- 
known  room,  with  its  flowers  and 
sun-shades  and  globes  of  goldfish, 
and  the  picture  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  its  dear  original  by  his 
side.  But  it  is  a  game  at  crosish 
purposes  all  through  this  dangerous 
pastime;  and  perhaps  its  very 
contretempB  are  wnat  make  it  so  in- 
teresting to  the  players,  so  amusing 
to  the  lookers-on. 

Lady  Bearwarden  grew  fidgetty 
after  a  while.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  '  the  man  with  some  silks  and 
brocades'  to  be  admitted  by  her 
servants  was  none  other  than  '  Gen- 
tleman Jim,'  who,  finding  the  dis- 
guise of  a  'travelling  merchant' 
that  in  which  he  excited  least  sus- 
picion in  his  interviews  with  her 
ladyship,  had  resolved  to  risk  de- 
tection yet  once  more,  and  had 
given  her  notice  of  his  intention. 

We  all  remember  Sinbad's  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea,  and  the  grip  of  that 
merciless   rider  tightening  doaer 
F  a 


68 


M.wN. 


and  cloBer  the  longer  he  was  carried 
by  his  disgiiBted  yiotdm.  There  is 
more  truth  in  the  Cable  than  most 
of  08  woold  like  to  allow.  If  yon 
onoe  permit  yourself  to  set  up  an 
'  Old  Man  of  the  Sea/  fiurewell  to 
free  agency,  happiness,  even  tole- 
rable comfort,  from  that  time  forth  1 
Sometimes  your  burden  takes  the 
shape  of  a  renewed  bill,  sometimes 
of  a  fiKtal  secret,  sometimes  of  an 
unwise  attachment,  sometimes  only 
of  a  bad  habit;  but  whatever  it  be, 
the  further  you  carry  it  the  heavier 
it  seems  to  grow;  and  in  this  case 
custom  does  not  in  the  least  degree 
reconcile  you  to  the  infliotioD.  Up 
with  your  heels,  and  kick  it  off  at 
any  price!  Even  should  you  rick 
your  back  in  the  process,  it  is 
better  to  be  crippled  for  life  than 
eternally  opi>res8ed  by  a  ruthless 
rider  and  an  intolerable  weight 

Gentlemsa  Jim  was  becoming 
Lady  Bearwarden's  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea.  More  than  onoe  of  late  be  had 
forced  himself  on  her  presence 
when  it  was  exceedingly  mconve- 
nient,  and  even  dangerous  to  meet 
him.  The  promised  interview  of 
to-day  had  been  extorted  from  her 
most  imwillingly,  and  by  threats, 
implied  if  not  expressed.  She  be- 
gan to  feel  that  she  was  no  longer 
her  own  mistress— that  she  had  lost 
her  independence,  and  was  virtually 
at  the  command  of  an  inferior.  To 
a  proud  nature  like  hers  such  a 
situation  seemed  simply  intole- 
rable. 

Lrad  Bearwarden  seldom  came 
in  much  before  it  was  time  to  dress 
for  dinner;  but  young  men's  habits 
are  not  usually  very  regular,  the 
monotonous  custom  of  doing  every- 
thing by  clockwork  being  a  tedious 
concomitant  of  old  age.  Maud  could 
not  calculate  on  his  absence  at  any 
particular  hour  of  the  day  unless 
ne  were  on  duty,  and  the  bare 
notion  that  she  should  wUh  thus  to 
calculate  fretted  and  chafed  her  be- 
yond measure.  It  was  a  relief  to  hear 
the  door^bell  once  more  and  prepare 
to  confiront  the  worst  A  Ix>ndon 
servant  never  betrays  astonishment, 
nor  indeed  any  emotion  whatever 
beyond  a  shade  of  dignified  and 
forbearing  contempt  The  first  foot- 
man showed    Lady  Bearwarden's 


snspidous-looking  visitor  into  her 
boudour  with  sublime  indifference, 
returning  thereafter  leisurely  and 
loftily  to  his  tea.  Maud  felt  her 
courage  departing,  and  her  defeat, 
like  that  of  brave  troops  seized  by 
panic,  seemed  all  the  more  immi- 
nent for  habitual  steadiness  and 
valour.  She  took  refuge  in  an 
attempt  to  bully.  'Why  are  you 
herer  said  Maud,  standing  bolt 
upright,  while  Gentleman  Jim,  with 
an  awkward  bow,  began  as  usual 
to  unroll  his  goods.  '  I  have  told 
you  often  enough  this  persecution 
must  finish.  I  am  determined  not 
to  endure  it  any  longer.  The  next 
time  you  call  I  stuill  order  my 
servanto  to  drive  you  from  the  door. 
Oh!  will  yoM—wUl  you  not  coma 
to  terms?* 

His  fBuce  had  been  growing 
darker  and  darker  while  she  spoke, 
and  she  watehed  its  expression  as 
the  Mediterranean  fisherman  watohes 
a  white  squall  gliding  with  fatal 
swiftness  over  the  waters,  to  bring 
ruin  and  shipwreck  and  despair. 
It  sometimes  happens  that  the 
fisherman  loses  his  head  precisely 
at  the  wrong  moment,  so  that 
foiled,  helpless,  and  taken  aback, 
he  comes  to  fiEital  and  irremediable 
grief.  Thus  Lady  Bearwarden 
too  found  the  nerve  on  which  she 
prided  herself  failing  when  she 
most  wanted  it,  and  knew  that  the 
prestige  and  influence  which  formed 
her  only  safeguards  were  slipping 
from  her  grasp. 

She  had  cowed  this  rufiSan  at  their 
first  meeting  by  an  assumption  of 
oakn  courage  and  superiority  in  a 
crisis  when  most  women,  thus  con- 
fronted at  dead  of  night  by  a  house- 
breaker, would  have  shrunk  trem- 
bling and  helpless  before  him. 
She  had  retained  her  superiority 
during  their  sulisequent  association 
by  an  utter  indifference  as  to  re- 
sults, so  long  as  they  onl^  affected 
character  and  fortune,  which  to  his 
lower  nature  seemed  simply  incom- 
prehensible; but  now  that  her  heart 
was  touched  she  could  no  longer 
remain  thus  reckless,  thus  defiant 
With  womanly  feelings  came  wo- 
manly misgivings  and  fear  of  con- 
sequences. The  charm  was  lost, 
the  spell  broken>  and  the  familiar 


M.  or  K 


69 


spiril  had  grown  to   an  exacting 
master  from  an  obedient  slaye. 

'That's  not  the  way  as  them 
speaks  who's  had  the  pith  and  mar- 
row out  of  a  chap's  werry  bones/ 
growled  Jim.  *  There  wasn't  no 
talkin'  of  fignre-footmen  and  dri^in' 
of  respectable  tradesmen  from  folks' 
doors  when  a  man  was  wanted,  like 
this  here.  A  man,  I  says,  wot  wasn't 
afeard  to  swing,  if  so  be  as  he  could 
act  honourable  and  fulfil  his  bar- 
gam.' 

'  111  pay  anything.  Hush!  pray. 
Don't  speak  so  load.  What  must 
my  servants  think?  Consider  the 
frightful  liaks  I  run.  Why  should 
you  wish  to  make  me  utterly  mise- 
rable— to  drive  me  out  of  my 
senses?  1*11  pay  anything— any- 
thing to  be  free  &om  this  intole- 
rable persecution.' 

'Pay— pay  anythinkP  repeated 
Jim,  slightly  mollified  by  her  dis- 
tress, but  still  in  a  tone  of  deep 
disgust.  '  Pay.  Ah !  that's  always 
the  word  with  the  likes  of  you. 
You  think  your  blessed  money  can 
buy  us  poor  chaps  up,  body  and 
heart  and  soul.  Blast  your  money  1 
says  I.  There,  that's  not  over 
civil,  my  lady,  but  it's  plain  speak- 
ing.' 

'  What  would  you  have  me  do?* 
she  asked,  in  a  low,  plaintive  voice. 

She  had  sunk  into  an  arm-chair, 
and  was  wringing  her  hands.  How 
lovely  she  looked,  now  at  her  sore 
distress.  It  impa^rted  the  one  femi- 
nine charm  generally  wanting  in 
her  beauty. 

Gentleman  Jim,  standing  over 
against  her,  could  not  but  feel  the 
old  mysterious  influence  pervading 
him  once  more.  '  If  you  was  to  say 
to  me,  Jim,  says  you,  I  believe 
as  you're  a  true  chap  I — I  believe 
as  you'd  serve  of  me,  body  and 
bones.  Well,  not  for  money. 
Money  be  d— — d!  But  for  good- 
will, well  say.  I  believe  as  you 
thinks  there's  nobody  on  this  'arth 
as  is  to  be  compared  of  me,  says 
you,  and  see,  now,  you  shall 
come  here  once  a  week,  once  a 
fortnit,  once  a  month,  even;  and 
I'll  never  say  no  more  about  clrivin' 
of  you  away;  but  you  shall  see  me, 
and  I'll  speak  of  yoa  kind  and  h'af- 
fftble;  and  whatever  I  wants  dono 


I'll  tell  you,  do  it;  and  it  wUl  be 
done;  see  if  it  won't!  Why — why 
I'd  be  proud,  my  lady — there — and 
happy  too.  Ay,  there  wouldn't 
walk  a  happier  man,  nor  a  prouder, 
maybe,  in  the  streets  of  London  I* 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Jim.  At 
its  conclusion  he  drew  his  sleeve 
across  his  face  and  bent  down  to  re- 
arrange the  contents  of  his  bundle. 

Tears  were  falling  from  her  eyes 
at  IsAi  Noiselessly  enough,  and 
without  that  redness  of  nose,  those 
contortions  of  face,  which  render 
them  so  unbecommg  to  most  women. 

*  Is  there  no  way  but  this?'  she 
murmured.  'No  way  but  this? 
It's  impossible.  If  s  absurd.  It's 
infamous!  Do  you  know  who  I 
am?  Do  you  know  what  you  ask? 
How  dare  you  dictate  terms  to  me  f 
How  dare  you  presume  to  say  I 
shall  do  this,  I  shall  not  do  tJiaif 
Leave  my  house  this  minute!  I 
will  not  listen  to  another  syllable  I' 

She  was  blazing  out  again,  and 
the  fire  of  pride  had  dried  her  tears 
ere  she  concluded.  Anger  brought 
bac^  her  natural  courage,  but  it  was 
too  late. 

Gentleman  Jim's  &ce,  distorted 
with  fury,  looked  hideous.  Under 
his  waistcoat  lurked  a  long,  thin 
knif&  Maud  never  knew  how 
near,  for  one  ghastly  moment,  that 
knife  was  to  beiDg  buried  in  her 
round  white  throat 

He  was  not  quite  madman  enough, 
however,  to  indulge  his  passions  so 
far,  with  the  certainty  of  iiomediate 
destruction.  'Have  a  carel'  he 
hissed  through  his  clenched  teeth. 
'If  you  and  me  is  to  be  enemies, 
look  out!  You  know  me— least- 
ways you  ought  to.  And  you  know 
I  stick  at  nothing.' 

She  was  still  dreadfully  fright- 
ened. Once  more  she  went  back  to 
the  old  plea,  and  offered  him,  fifty 
pounds,  a  hundred  pounds.  Any- 
thing! 

He  was  tying  the  knots  of  his 
bundle.  Completing  the  last,  he 
looked  up,  and  the  glare  in  his  eyes 
haunted  her  through  many  a  sleep- 
less night 

'  You've  done  it  now !'  was  all  he 
muttered.  'When  next  you  see 
me  youll  wish  you  hadn't' 

It  speaks  well  for  Jim's  self-corn- 


70 


JCorJV. 


nuuid  that,  as  he  went  dowB,  he 
could  say,  'Your  servant,  my  lord/ 
with  perfect  composure,  to  a  gentle- 
man whom  he  met  on  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
'the  LimjE  ou>in>.' 

Lord  Bearwaiden,  like  other  no- 
blemen and  gentlemen  keeping 
house  in  London,  was  not  invanably 
fortunate  in  the  selection  of  his  ser* 
Yants.  The  division  of  labour,  that 
admirable  system  by  which  such 
great  xesults  are  attaked,  had  been 
brought  to  perfection  in  his  as  in 
many  other  establishmenta  A  man 
who  cleaned  knives,  it  appeared, 
could  not  possibly  do  anything  else, 
and  for  several  days  the  domestic 
arrangements  below  stairs  had  been 
disturbed  by  a  knotty  question  as 
to  whose  business  it  was  to  answer 
'my  lord's  bell.'  Now  my  lord  was 
what  his  servants  called  rather  '  a 
arbitrary  gentleman,'  seeming,  in- 
deed, to  entertain  tfa^  preposterous 
notion  that  these  were  paid  their 
wages  in  consideiation  of  doing  as 
they  were  bid.  It  was  not  there- 
fore surprising  that  figure-footmen, 
high  of  stature  and  fiftultless  in  gene- 
ral appearance,  should  have  suc- 
ceeded each  other  with  startling 
rapidity,  throwing  up  their  appoint- 
ments and  doffing  his  lordship's 
livery,  without  regard  to  their  own 
welfare  or  their  employer's  conve- 
nience, but  in  accordance  with  some 
Quixotic  notions  of  respect  for  their 
office  and  loyalty  to  their  order. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  a  subor- 
dinate in  rank,  holding  the  appoint- 
ment of  second  footman,  had  been 
so  lately  enlisted  as  not  yet  to  have 
made  himself  acquainted  with  the 
personal  appearance  of  his  master ; 
and  it  speaks  well  for  the  amiable 
disposition  of  this  recruit  that  al- 
though his  liveries  were  not  made, 
he  should,  during  the  temporary 
absence  of  a  fellow-servant,  who 
was  curling  his  whiskers  below, 
have  consented  to  answer  the  door. 

Lord  Bearwarden  had  rung  like 
any  other  arrival ;  bat  it  must  be 
allowed  that  his  composure  was 
somewhat  ruffled  when  refused  ad- 
mittance by  his  own  servant  to  his 
own  house. 


'Her  ladyship's  not  at  home,  I 
tell  ye,'  said  the  man,  apparently 
resenting  the  freedom  with  which 
this  stranger  proceeded  into  the 
ball,  while  he  plaoed  his  own  massive 
person  in  the  way ;  'and  if  you  want 
to  see  my  lord,  you  just  eeok't—that 
I  know  r 

'Why?'  asked  his  master,  begm- 
ning  to  suspect  how  the  land  lay, 
and  oonsidenbly  amused. 

'Because  his  lordship's  particu- 
larly engaged.  He's  having  his 
'air  cut  just  now,  and  the  dentist's 
waiting  to  see  him  after  he's  done,' 
returned  this  imaginative  retainer, 
arguing  indeed  firom  his  pertinacity 
that  the  visitor  must  be  one  of  the 
swell  mob,  therefore  to  be  kept  out 
at  any  cost 

'  And  who  are  you  f  said  his  lord- 
ship, now  laughing  outright 

'  Who  am  I?'  repeated  the  man. 
Tmlus  lordship's  footman.  Now, 
then,  who  are  youf  Thafs  more 
like  it  I' 

'I'm  Lord  Bearwaiden  himself,' 
replied  his  master. 

'Lord  Bearwarden!  Oh!  I  dare 
say,'  was  the  unexpected  rejoinder. 
'  Well,  that  is  a  good  one.  Come, 
young  man,  none  of  these  games 
here :  there's  a  policeman  round  the 
comer.' 

At  this  juncture  the  fortunate 
arrival  of  the  gentleman  with  lately- 
curled  whiskers,  in  search  of  lus 
'Bell's  Life,'  left  on  the  hall-table, 
produced  an  ^daircissement  much  to 
the  unbeliever's  confusion,  and  the 
master  of  tiie  house  was  permitted 
to  ascend  his  own  staircase  without 
further  obstruction. 

Meeting '  Gentieman  Jim'  coming 
down  with  a  bundle,  it  did  not  strike 
him  as  the  least  extraordinary  that 
his  wife  should  have  denied  herself 
to  other  visitors.  Slight  as  was  his 
experience  of  women  and  their  ways, 
he  had  yet  learned  to  respect  those 
various  rites  that  constitute  the 
mystery  of  shopping,  appreciating 
the  composure  and  undisturbed  at- 
tention indispensable  to  a  satisfac- 
tory performance  of  that  ceremony. 

But  it  did  trouble  him  to  observe 
on  Lady  Bearwarden's  face  traces 
of  recent  emotion,  even,  he  thought, 
to  tears.  She  turned  quickly  aside 
when  he  came  into  the  room,  busy- 


M.arN. 


71 


ing  herself  with  the  blinds  and 
mnslin  window-curtains;  bat  he  had 
a  quick  eye,  and  his  perceptions 
were  sharpened  besides  by  an  afifeo- 
tion  he  was  too  proud  to  admit» 
while  racked  with  cruel  misgivings 
that  it  might  not  be  returned. 

'  Qentleman-like  man  that,  I  met 
JQSt  now  on  the  stairs  T  he  began 
good-humouredly  enough,  though 
in  a  certain  cold,  conventional  tone, 
that  Maud  knew  too  well,  and  hated 
accordingly.  *  Dancing  partner, 
swell  mob,  smuggler,  respectable 
tradesman,  what  is  he  ?  Ought  to 
sell  cheap,  I  should  say.  Looks  as 
if  he  stole  the  things  ready  made. 
Hope  you've  done  good  business 
with  him,  my  lady  ?  May  I  see  the 
plunder?'  He  never  called  her 
Maud;  it  was  always 'my  lady/  as  if 
they  had  been  married  for  twenty 
jeais.  How  she  longed  for  an  en- 
dearing word,  slipping  out,  as  it 
were,  by  accident —for  a  covert  smile, 
an  occasional  caress.  Perhaps  had 
these  been  lavished  more  freely  she 
might  have  rated  them  at  a  lower 
yalue. 

Lady  Bearwarden  was  not  one  of 
those  women  who  can  tell  a  lie  with- 
out the  slightest  hesitation,  calmly 
isatisfied  that  '  the  end  justides  the 
means ;'  neither  did  it  form  a  part 
of  her  creed  that  a  lie  by  implica- 
tion is  less  dishonourable  than  a  lie 
direct.  On  the  contrary,  her  nature 
was  exceedingly  frank,  even  defiant, 
and  from  priafe,  perhaps,  rathbr  than 
principle,  she  soomea  no  baseness 
so  heartily  as  duplicity.  Therefore 
she  hesitated  now  and  changed  co- 
lour, looking  guilty  and  confused, 
but  taking  refuge,  as  usual,  in  self- 
assertion. 

'I  had  business  with  the  man,' 
fihe  answered,  haughtily,  'or  you 
would  not  have  found  him  here. 
I  might  have  got  rid  of  him  sooner, 
laerhaps,  if  J  had  known  you  were 
TO  be  home  so  early.  I'm  sure  I 
hate  shopping,  I  hate  tradespeople, 
I  hate ' 

She  was  going  to  say  'I  hate 
everything,'  but  stopped  herself  in 
time.  (Counting  her  married  life  as 
jet  only  by  weeks,  it  would  have 
sounded  too  ungracious,  too  un- 
grateful I 

'Why  should  you  do  anything 


you  hate?'  said  her  husband,  Tery 
kindly,  and  to  all  appearance  dis- 
missing every  suspicion  from  his 
mind,  though  deep  in  his  heart 
rankled  the  cmel  conviction  that 
between  them  this  strange,  myste- 
rious barrier  increased  day  by  day. 
'  I  want  you  to  have  as  little  of  the 
rough  and  as  much  of  the  smooth  ^ 
in  life  as  is  possible.  All  the  ups 
and  none  of  the  downs,  my  lady. 
If  this  fellow  bores  you,  tell  them 
not  to  let  him  in  again.  That 
second  footman  will  keep  him  out 
like  a  dragon.  111  be  bound.'  Then 
he  proceeded  laughingly  to  relate 
his  own  adventure  with  his  new 
servant  in  the  hall. 

He  seemed  cordial,  kind,  good- 
humoured  enough,  but  his  tone  was 
that  of  man  to  man,  brother  officer 
to  comrade,  not  of  a  lover  to  his 
mistress,  a  husband  to  his  lately- 
married  wife. 

She  felt  this  keenly,  though  at 
the  same  time  she  could  appreciate 
his  tact,  forbearance,  and  generositj 
in  asking  no  more  questions  about 
her  visitor.  To  have  shown  suspi* 
don  of  Maud  would  have  been  at 
once  to  drive  her  to  eztremities, 
while  implicit  confidence  put  heron 
honour  and  rendered  her  both  un« 
able  and  unwilling  to  deceive. 
Never  since  their  first  acquaintance 
had  she  found  occasion  to  test  this 
quality  of  trust  in  her  husband,  and 
now  it  seemed  that  he  possessed  it 
largely,  like  a  number  of  other 
manly  characteristics.  That  he  was 
brave,  loyal,  and  generous  she  had 
discovered  already;  handsome  and 
of  high  position  she  knew  long  ago, 
or  she  would  never  have  resolved 
on  his  capture ;  and  what  was  there 
wanting  to  complete  her  perfect 
happiness?  Only  one  thing,  she 
answered  herself;  but  for  it  she 
would  so  willingly  have  bartered  all 
the  rest — that  he  should  love  her 
as  Dick  Stanmore  did.  Poor  Dick 
Stanmorel  how  badly  she  had 
treated  him,  and  perhaps  this  was 
to  be  her  punishment 

'Bearwarden,'  she  said,  crossing 
the  room  to  lean  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  *  we've  got  to  dine  at  your 
aunt's  to-night.  I  suppose  they 
will  be  very  late.  I  wish  there  were 
no  such  things  as  dinners,  don't  yon?* 


72 


If,  or  jr. 


'Not  when  Fve  missed  loncbeon, 
as  I  did  to-day/  answered  his  lord- 
ship, whose  appetite  was  like  that 
of  any  other  healthy  man  under 
forty. 

'I  hoped  yon  wouldn't,*  Bhe  ob- 
served, in  rather  a  low  voice;  'it 
was  very  dull  without  you.  We 
,  see  each  other  so  seldom,  somehow, 
I  diould  like  to  go  to  the  play  to- 
morrow—you and  I,  Darby  and 
Joan— I  don't  care  which  house,  nor 
what  the  play  is.' 

'To-morrow,'  he  answered,  with 
a  bright  smile.  '  All  right,  my  lady, 
ni  send  for  a  box.  I  forgot,  though, 
I  can't  go  to-morrow,  I'm  on  Guard.' 

Her  &ce  fell,  but  she  turned 
away  that  he  might  not  detect  her 
disappointment,  and  began  to  feed 
her  bullfinch  in  the  window. 

*  You're  always  on  Guard,  I  think,' 
said  she,  after  a  pause.  *  I  wonder 
you  like  it:  surely  it  must  be  a 
dreadful  tie.  Tou  lost  your  grouse- 
shooting  this  year  and  the  Derby, 
didn't  you?  all  to  sit  in  plate 
armour  and  jack-boots  at  tliat 
gloomiest  and  stuffiest  of  Horse 
Guards.  Bearwarden,  I—I  wish 
you'd  give  up  the  regiment,  I  do 
indeed.' 

When  Maud's  countenance  wore 
a  pleading  expression,  as  now,  it 
was  more  than  beautiful,  it  was 
lovely.  Looking  in  her  face  it 
seemed  to  him  that  it  was  as  the 
&ce  of  an  angel. 

'Do  you  honestly  wish  it?'  he  re- 
plied, gently.  '  I  would  do  a  great 
deal  to  please  you,  my  lady ;  but — 
no— I  couldn't  do  that.' 

'  He  can't  really  care  for  me ;  I 
knew  it  all  along '  thought  poor 
Maud,  but  she  only  looked  up  at  him 
rather  wistfully  and  held  her  peace. 

He  was  gazing  miles  away,  through 
the  window,  through  the  opposite 
houses,  their  offices,  their  washing- 
ground,  and  the  mews  at  the  back. 
She  had  never  seen  him  look  so 
grave;  she  had  never  seen  that  soft, 
sad  look  on  ius  face  before.  She 
wondered  now  that  she  could  ever 
have  regarded  that  face  as  a  mere 
encumbrance  and  accessory  to  be 
taken  with  a  coronet  and  twenty 
thousand  a  year. 

*  Would  you  like  to  know  why  I 
cannot  make  this  sacriSce  to  please 


you?'  he  asked,  in  a  low,  serious 
voice.  '  I  think  yon  ought  to  know, 
my  hidy,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I'm 
fond  of  soldiering,  of  course.  I've 
been  brought  up  to  the  trade— that's 
nothiog.  So  I  am  of  hunting,  shoot- 
ing, rackets,  cricketing,  London 
porter,  and  dry  champagne ;  butrd 
give  them  up,  each  and  all,  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  if  it  made  you  any 
happier  for  ten  minutes.  I  am  a 
little  ambitious,  I  grant,  and  tb& 
only  fame  I  would  care  much  for  is 
a  soldier's.  Still,  even  if  my  chance 
of  military  distinction  were  ten  times 
as  good  I  shouldn't  grudge  losing  it 
for  your  sake.  No:  what  makes 
me  stick  to  the  regiment  is  what 
makes  a  fellow  take  a  life-buoy  on 
board  ship — the  instinct  of  self-pre- 
servation. When  everything  elso 
goes  down  he  s  got  that  to  cling  to, 
and  can  have  a  fight  for  his  life. 
Once,  my  lady,  long  before  I  had 
ever  seen  you,  it  was  my  bad  luck 
to  be  very  unhappy.  I  didn^t  howl 
about  it  at  the  time,  Fm  not  going 
to  howl  about  it  now.  Simply,  all 
at  once,  in  a  day,  an  hour,  every* 
thing  in  the  world  turned  from  a 
joy  to  a  misery  and  a  pain.  If  my 
mother  hadn  t  taught  me  better,  I 
should  have  taken  the  quickest 
remedy  of  all.  If  I  hadn't  had  the 
regiment  to  fall  back  upon  I  must 
have  gone  mad.  The  kindness  of 
my  brother  officers  I  never  can  for- 
get; and  to  go  down  the  ranks 
scanning  the  bold,  honest  fiaces  of 
the  men,  feeling  tliat  we  had  cast 
our  lot  in  together,  and  when  the 
time  came  would  all  play  the  same 
stake,  win  or  lose,  reminded  me 
that  there  were  others  to  live  for  be- 
sides myself,  and  that  I  had  not 
lost  everythiDg,  while  yet  a  share 
remained  invested  in  our  joint  ven- 
ture. When  I  lay  awake  in  my 
barrack-room  at  night  I  could  hear 
the  stamp  and  snort  of  the  old  blacky 
troopers,  and  it  did  me  good.  I 
don't  know  the  reason,  but  it  did 
me  good.  Tou  will  think  I  was  very 
unhappy — so  I  was,' 

'  But  why  ?'  asked  Maud,  shrewdly 
guessing,  and  at  the  same  time 
dreading  the  answer. 

'  Because  I  was  a  fool,  my  lady,' 
replied  her  husband—'  a  fool  of  the 
very  highest  calibre.    You  have,  no 


M.orN. 


IB 


doubt,  discovered  that  in  this  world 
folly  is  panished  far  more  severely 
than  viilany.  Deceive  others,  and 
you  prosper  well  enongh;  allow 
yourself  to  be  deceived,  and  you're 
pitched  into  as  if  you  were  the 
greatest  rogue  unhung.  It's  not  a 
subject  for  you  and  me  to  talk 
about,  my  lady.  I  only  mentioned 
it  to  show  you  why  I  am  so  unwil- 
ling to  leave  the  army.  Why,  I 
clare  not  do  it,  even  to  please  you.' 

'But'— she  hesitated,  and  her 
voice  came  very  soft  and  low—'  you, 
^you  are  not  afraid  —  I  mean 
you  don't  think  it  likely,  do  you, 
that  you  will  ever  be  so  unhappy 
again  ?  It  was  about— about  some- 
body that  you  cared  for,  I  suppose/ 

She  got  it  out  with  difficulty,  and 
already  hated  that  unknown  Some- 
body with  an  unreasoning  hatred, 
such  as  women  think  justifiable  aod 
even  meritorious  in  like  cases. 

He  laughed  a  harsh,  forced  laugh. 

'  What  a  fool  you  must  think  me,' 
said  he;  'I  ought  never  to  have 
told  you.  Tee,  it  was  about  a 
woman,  of  cours&  You  did  not 
Hftnoy  I  could  be  so  soft,  did  you? 
Don*t  let  us  talk  about  it.  Ill  toll 
you  in  three  words,  and  then  will 
never  mention  the  subject  again. 
I  trusted  and  believed  in  her.  She 
deceived  me,  and  that  sort  of  thing 
puts  a  fellow  all  wrong,  you  know, 
unless  he's  very  good-tempered,  and 
I  suppose  I'm  not.  If  s  never  likely 
to  happen  again,  but  still,  blows  of 
all  sorts  fall  upon  people  when  they 
least  expect  them,  and  that's  why  I 
can't  give  up  the  old  corps,  but 
shall  stick  by  it  to  the  last' 

'Are  you  sure  you  haven't  for- 
given her?'  asked  Maud,  inwardly 
trembling  for  an  answer. 

'  Forgiven  her  !*  repeated  his  lord- 
ship ;  *  well,  I've  forgiven  her  like 
a  Christian,  as  they  say— perhaps 
even  more  folly  than  that.  I  don't 
wish  her  any  evil.  I  wouldn't  do 
her  a  bad  turn,  but  as  for  ever 
thinking  of  her  or  caring  for  her 
afterwards,  that  was  impossible. 
No.  While  I  confided  in  her  freely 
and  fully,  while  I  gave  up  for  her 
sake  everything  I  prized  and  cared 
for  in  the  world,  while  I  was  even 
on  the  verge  of  sending  in  my 
papers  because  it  seemed  to  be  her 


wish  I  should  leave  the  regiment, 
she  had  her  own  secret  hidden  up 
from  me  all  the  time.  That  showed 
what  she  was.  No:  I  don't  think  I 
could  ever  forgive  that—Gicepi  as  a 
Christian,  you  know,  my  lady  I' 

He  ended  in  a  light  sarcastic  tone, 
for  like  most  men  who  have  lived 
much  in  the  world,  he  had  acquired 
a  habit  of  discussing  the  gravest 
and  most  painful  subjecte  with  con- 
ventional coolness,  originating  per- 
haps in  our  national  dislike  of  any- 
thing sentimental  or  dramatic  in 
situation.  He  could  have  written 
probably  eloquently  and  seriously 
enough,  but  to  'speak  like  a  book ' 
would  have  lowered  him,  in  his  own 
esteem,  as  being  unmanly  no  less 
than  ungentlemanlike. 

Maud's  heart  ached  very  pain- 
fally.  A  secret  then,  kept  from 
him  by  the  woman  he  trusted, 
was  the  one  thin|^  he  could  not 
pardon.  Must  this  indeed  be  her 
punishment?  Day  by  day  to  live 
with  this  honourable  generous  na- 
ture, learning  to  love  it  so  dearly, 
and  yet  so  hopelessly,  because  of 
the  great  gulf  fixed  by  her  own 
desperate  venture,  risked,  after  all, 
that  she  might  win  him!  For  a 
moment,  under  the  *  influence  of 
that  great  tide  of  love  which 
swelled  up  in  her  breast,  she  f^lt 
as  if  she  must  put  her  whole  life's 
happiness  on  one  desperate  throw, 
and  abide  the  result  Make  a  clean 
breast,  implore  his  forgiveness,  and 
tell  him  all. 

She  had  been  wandering  about 
while  he  spoke,  straightening  a 
table-cover  here,  snipping  a  dead 
leaf  ofif  a  geranium  there,  and  other- 
wise fidgetting  to  conceal  her  emo- 
tion. Now  she  walked  across  the 
room  to  her  husband's  side,  and  in 
another  minute  perhaps  the  whole 
truth  would  have  heen  out,  and 
these  two  might  have  driven  off 
to  dinner  in  their  brongham,  the 
happiest  couple  in  London ;  but  the 
door  was  thrown  wide  open,  and 
the  student  of '  Bell's  Life,'  on  whose 
whiskers  the  time  employed  in  curl- 
ing them  had  obviously  not  been 
thrown  away,  announced  to  her 
ladyship,  with  much  pomp,  that  her 
carriage  was  at  the  door. 

'  Good  gracious!'  exclaimed  Maud, 


74 


ULarN. 


'  and  your  atuit  is  always  so  pnnc- 
toal.  Toa  must  diess  in  ten  mi- 
nutes, Bearwarden.  I'm  certain  I 
can.  Bun  down  this  moment,  and 
don't  stop  to  answer  a  single  letter 
if  if  s  a  case  of  life  and  death/ 

And  Lady  Beafwazden,  casting 
all  other  thoughts  to  the  winds  in 
the  present  emergency,  hurried  up 
stairs  after  the  pretty  little  feet  of 
her  French  maid,  whose  anxiety 
that  her  lady  should  not  be  late, 
and  perhaps  ,a  certain  curiosity  to 
know  the  cause  of  delay,  had 
tempted  her  down  at  least  as  far  as 
the  first  landing,  while  my  lord 
walked  to  his  dressing-room  on  the 
ground-floor,  with  the  comfortable 
oonyiotion  that  he  might  spend  a 
good  half-hour  at  his  toilette,  and 
would  then  be  ready  a  considerable 
time  before  his  wife. 

The  reflections  that  chased  each 
other  through  the  pretty  head  of 
the  latter  while  subjected  to  Jus- 
tine's skilfol  manipulations,  I  will 
not  take  upon  me  to  detail.  I 
may  state,  howeyer,  that  the  dress 
she  chose  to  wear  was  trimmed 
with  Bear  warden's  fayourite  colour; 
that  she  carried  a  bunch  of  his  fa- 
yourite flowers  on  her  breast  and 
another  in  her  hair. 

A  brougham  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
long,  low,  high-stepping  horses,  at 
the  rate  of  twelye  miles  an  hour,  is 
an  untoward  yehicle  for  serious  con- 
yersation  when  taking  its  occupants 
out  to  dinner,  although  well  adapted 
for  tender  confidence  or  mutual  re- 
crimination on  its  return  from  a 
party  at  night.  Lady  Bearwarden 
could  not  eyen  make  sure  tliat  her 
husband  obseryed  she  had  con- 
sulted his  taste  in  dress.  Truth 
to  tell,  Lord  Bearwarden  was  only 
conscious  that  his  wife  looked  ex- 
ceedingly handsome,  and  that  he 
wished  they  were  going  to  dine  at 
home.  Marriage  had  made  him 
yery  slow,  and  this  inconyenient 
wish  lasted  him  all  through  dinner, 
notwithstanding  that  it  was  his  en- 
yiable  lot  to  sit  by  a  fast  young 
lady  of  the  |)eriod,  who  rallied  him 
with  exceeding  good  taste  on  his 
wife,  his  house,  his  furniture,  man- 
ners, dress,  horses,  and  eyerything 
that  was  his.  Once,  in  extremity 
of  boredom,   he  caught  sight  of 


Maud's  delicate  profile  fiye  couples 
off,  and  iiBLncied  ne  could  detect  on 
the  pale  pure  fiice,  something  of 
his  own  weariness  and  abstractioiL 
After  that  the  £ftst  young  lady 
'  went  at  him,'  as  she  called  it,  in 
yain.  Later,  in  the  drawing-room, 
she  told  another  damsel  of  her  kind 
that  '  Bruin's  marriage  had  utterly 
spoilt  him.  Simply,  ruination,  my 
dear!  So  unlike  men  in  general. 
What  he  could  see  in  her  I  can't 
make  out!  She  looks  like  death, 
and  she's  not  very  well  dressed,  in 
my  opinion.  I  wonder  if  she  bullies 
him.  He  used  to  be  such  fun.  So 
fast,  80  cheery,  so  delightfolly  sa- 
tirical, and  as  wicked  as  Sin !' 

Maud  went  home  in  the  brougham 
by  herself.  After  a  tedious  dinner, 
lasting  through  a  couple  of  hours, 
enliyened  by  the  conyersation  of  a 
man  he  can't  understand,  and  the 
persecutions  of  a  woman  who  bores 
him,  it  is  natural  for  the  male  hu- 
man subject  to  .desire  tobacco,  and 
a  walk  home  in  order  to  smoke. 
Somehow,  the  male  human  subject 
neyer  does  walk  straight  home  with 
its  cigar.  Bearwarden,  like  others 
of  his  class,  went  off  to  Pratt's, 
where,  we  will  hope,  he  was  amused, 
though  he  did  not  look  it.  A  cigar 
on  a  close  eyening  leads  to  soda 
water,  with  a  slice  of  lemon,  and,  I 
had  almost  forgotten  to  add,  a  small 
modicum  of  gin.  This  entails 
another  cigar,  and  it  is  wonderful 
how  soon  one  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing comes  round  again.  When 
Lord  Bearwarden  turned  out  of 
St  James's  Street  it  was  too  late 
to  think  of  anything  but  immediate 
bed.  Her  ladyship's  confessions,  if 
she  had  any  to  make,  must  be  put 
off  till  breakfast- time,  and  alas !  by 
her  breakfiftst-time,  which  was  none 
of  the  earliest,  my  lord  was  well 
down  in  his  sheep-skin,  riding  out 
of  the  barrack-gate  in  command  of 
his  guard. 

■  Frontc  capillat£  post  est  Occasio  calav !' 

Bald-pated  Father  Time  had  suc- 
ceeded in  slipping  his  forelock  out 
of  Maud's  hand  the  eyening  before, 
and,  henceforth,  behind  his  bare  and 
mocking  skull,  those  delicate,  dis- 
appointed fingers  must  close  on 
empty  air  in  yain! 


M.  or  N. 


75 


CHAPTEB  XXL 

FUBENS  QUID  F(EMINA. 

We  left  Tom  Byfe,  helpless,  im- 
oonscioos,  more  dead  than  alive, 
sapported  between  a  man  and 
woman  np  a  back  street  in  West- 
minster: we  mnst  retnm  to  him 
after  a  considerable  interval,  pale, 
langtiid,  but  convalescent,  on  a  sofa 
in  his  own  room  tmder  his  nncle's 
tool  He  is  only  now  beginning 
to  understand  that  he  has  been 
dangerously  ill;  that  according  to 
his  doctor  nothing  but  a  'splendid 
constitution '  and  unprecedented  me- 
dical skill  have  brought  him  back 
from  the  threshold  of  that  grim 
portal  known  as  death's  door.  This 
he  does  not  quite  believe,  but  is 
aware,  nevertheless,  that  he  is  much 
enfeebled,  and  that  his  system  has 
sustained  what  he  himself  <»lis  'a 
deuced  awkward  shak&'  Even  now 
he  retains  no  very  dear  idea  of  what 
happened  to  him.  He  remembers 
vaguely,  as  in  a  dream,  certain  bare 
wails  of  a  dim  and  gloomy  chamber, 
tapestried  with  cobwebs,  smelling 
of  damp  and  mould  like  a  vault, 
certain  broken  fumituie,  shabby  and 
scarce,  on  a  bare  brick  floor,  witib  a 
grate  in  which  no  fire  oould  have 
been  kindled  without  falling  into 
the  middle  of  the  room.  He  recalls 
that  racking  headache,  that  scorch- 
ing thirst,  and  those  pains  in  all  the 
bones  of  a  wan,  wasted  figure  lying 
under  a  patchwork  quilt  on  a 
squalid  bed.  A  figure,  independent 
of,  and  dissevered  from  himself,  yet 
in  some  deg^e  identified  with  his 
thoughts,  his  sufferings,  and  his 
memories.  Somebody  nursed  the 
figure,  too — ^he  is  sureof  that— bring- 
ing it  water,  medicines,  food,  and 
leeches  for  its  aching  temples; 
smoothing  its  pillow  and  arranging 
its  bed-clothes,  in  those  endless 
nights,  so  much  longer,  yet  scarce 
more  dismal  than  the  days,— some- 
body, whose  voice  he  never  heard, 
whose  face  he  never  saw,  yet  in 
whose. slow,  cautious  tread  there 
seemed  a  familiar  sound.  Once,  in 
delirium,  he  insisted  it  was  Miss 
Bruce,  but  even  through  that  de- 
lirium he  knew  he  must  be  raving, 
and  it  was  impossibla  Could  that 
be  a  part  of  his  dream,  too,  in  which 


he  dragged  himself  out  of  bed,  to 
dress  in  his  own  clothes,  laid  out  on 
the  chair  that  had  hitherto  carried  a 
basin  of  gruel  or  a  jug  of  cooling 
drink?  No,  it  must  have  been 
reality  surely,  for  even  to-day  |  he 
has  so  vivid  a  remembrance  of  the 
fresh  air,  the  blinding  simshine,  and 
the  homely  life-like  look  of  that 
four-wheeled  cab  waiting  in  the 
narrow  street,  which  he  entered 
mechanically,  which,  aa  mechani- 
cally brought  him  home  to  his 
unde's  house,  the  man  asking  no 
questions,  nor  stopping  to  receive 
his  fare.  To  be  sore,  he  fiiinted 
from  utter  weakness  at  the  door. 
Of  that  he  is  satisfied,  for  he  re- 
members nothing  between  the  jolt- 
ing of  those  slippery  cushions  and 
another  bed  in  which  he  fi)und 
himself,  with  a  grave  doctor  watch- 
ing over  him,  and  which  he  recog- 
nised, doubtfully,  as  his  own« 

Gradually,  with  returning  strength, 
Tom  began  to  suspeot  tbe  truth, 
that  he  had-  been  hocussed  and 
robbed.  His  pockets,  when  he  re- 
sumed his  clothes,  were  empty. 
Their  only  contents,  his  cigar-case, 
and  Miss  Bruce's  letter,  were  gon& 
The  motive  for  so  desperate  an  at- 
tack he  felt  unable  to  fathom.  His 
intellect  was  still  affected  by  bodily 
weakness,  and  he  inclined  at  first  to 
think  he  had  been  mistaken  for 
somebody  else.  The  real  truth 
only  dawned  on  him  by  degrees. 
Its  first  ray  originated  with  no  less 
brilliant  a  luminary  than  old  Bar- 
grave. 

To  do  him  justice,  the  uncle  had 
shown  far  more  natural  affection 
than  his  household  had  hitherto 
believed  him  capable  of  feeling. 
During  his  nephew*s  absence,  he 
had  been  like  one  distracted,  and 
the  large  reward  offered  for  dis- 
covery of  the  missing  gentleman 
sufficiently  testified  his  anxiety  and 
alarm.  When  Tom  did  return, 
more  dead  than  alive,  Bargrave 
hurried  off  in  person  to  procure 
the  best  medical  advioo,  and  post^ 
poning  inquiry  into  his  wrongs  to 
the  more  immediate  necessity  of 
nursing  the  sufferer,  spent  six  or 
seven  hours  out  of  tbe  twenty-four 
at  the  sick  man's  bedside. 

The  first  day  Tom  could  sit  up 


76 


M.wN. 


his  unole  thought  well  to  enliven 
him  witii  a  little  news,  social,  gene- 
ral, and  professional.  Having  told 
him  that  he  had  outbid  Mortlake 
for  the  last  batch  of  poor  Mr.  Chalk- 
stone's  port,  and  stated,  at  some 
length,  his  reasons  for  doubting  the 
stability  of  Government,  he  entered 
gleefully  upon  congenial  topics,  and 
proceeded  to  give  the  invalid  a 
general  sketch  of  business  affairs 
during  his  retirement. 

'  I've  worked  the  coach,  Tom,' 
said  he,  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  waving  his  coat-tails,  'as 
well  as  it  could  be  worked,  single- 
handed.  I  don't  think  you'll  find 
a  screw  loose  anywhere.  Ah,  Tom! 
an  old  head,  you  know,  is  worth  a 
many  pair  of  hands.  When  you're 
well  enough,  in  a  week  or  so,  my 
lad,  I  shall  like  to  show  you  how 
I've  kept  everything  going,  though 
I  was  so  anxious,  terribly  anxious, 
all  the  time.  The  only  matter 
iiiat's  been  left  what  you  call  in 
statu  quo  is  that  business  of  Miss 
Bruce%  which  I  had  nothing  to  do 
with.  It  will  last  you  a  good  while 
yet,  Tom,  though  it's  of  less  im- 
portance to  her  now,  poor  thing  I 
—don't  you  move,  Tom— I'll  hand 
you  the  barley-water— because  she's 
Miss  Bruce  no  longer.' 

Tom  gasi)ed,  and  hid  his  pale  thin 
face  in  the  jug  of  barley-water.  He 
had  some  pluck  about  him,  after  all; 
for  weak  and  ill  as  he  was  he  managed 
to  get  out  an  indifferent  question. 

'  Not  Miss  Bruce,  isn't  she?  Ah ! 
I  hadn*t  heard.  Who  is  she  then, 
uncle  ?  I  suppose  you  mean  she's— 
she's  marriea.'  He  was  so  husky, 
no  wonder  he  took  another  pull  at 
the  barley-water. 

'  Yes,  she's  married,' answered  his 
unole  in  the  indifferent  tone  with 
which  threescore  years  and  odd  can 
discuss  that  fatality.  '  Made  a  good 
marriage,  too— an  excellent  mar- 
riage. What  do  you  think  of  a 
peerage,  my  boy?  She's  Viscountess 
Bearwarden  now.  Twenty  thou- 
sand a  year,  if  if  s  a  penny.  I  am 
sure  of  it,  for  I  was  concerned  in 
a  lawsuit  of  the  late  lord's  twenty 
years  ago.  I  don't  suppose  you're 
acquainted  with  her  husband,  Tom. 
Not  in  our  circle,  you  know;  but 
a  most  respectable  young  man  I 


understand,  and  likely  to  be  lord- 
lieutenant  of  his  county  before 
long.  I'm  sure  I  trust  she'll  be 
happy.  And  now,  Tom,  as  you 
seem  easy  and  comfortable,  per- 
haps you'd  like  to  go  to  sleep  for  a 
littla  If  you  want  anything  you 
can  reach  the  bell,  and  I'll  come 
and  see  you  again  before  I  dress  for 
dinner.' 

Easy  and  comfortable  I  When 
the  door  shut  behind. his  uncle  Tom 
bowed  his  head  upon  the  table  and 
gave  way  completely.  He  was  un- 
manned by  illness,  and  the  shock 
had  been  too  much  for  him.  It 
was  succeeded,  however,  and  that 
pretty  quickly,  by  feelings  of  bitter 
wrath  and  resentment,  which  did 
more  to  restore  his  strength  than 
all  the  tonics  in  the  world.  An 
explanation,  too,  seemed  now  af- 
forded to  much  that  had  so  mys- 
tified him  of  late.  What  if,  ren- 
dered desperate  by  his  threats.  Miss 
Bruce  had  been  in  some  indirect 
manner  the  origin  of  his  captivity 
and  illness— Miss  Bruce,  the  woman 
who  of  all  others  owed  him  the 
largest  debt  of  gratitude  (like  most 
people,  Tom  argued  from  his  own 
side  of  the  question) ;  for  whom  he 
had  laboured  so  unremittingly,  and 
was  willing  to  sacrifice  so  much. 
Gould  it  be  so?  And  if  it  was, 
should  he  not  be  justified  in  going 
to  any  extremity  for  revenge  ?  Bc- 
venge— yes,  that  was  all  he  had  to 
live  for  now ;  and  the  very  thought 
seemed  to  put  new  vigour  into  his 
system,  infuse  fresh  blood  in  his 
veins.  So  is  it  with  all  baser  spirits ; 
and  perhaps  in  the  indulgence  of 
this  cowardly  craving  they  obtain 
a  more  speedy  relief  than  nobler 
natures  from  die  first  agony  of  suf- 
fering; but  their  cure  is  not  and 
never  can  be  permanent;  and  to 
them  must  remain  unknown  that 
strange  wild  strain  of  some  un- 
earthly music  which  thrills  through 
those  sore  hearts  that  can  repay 
good  for  evil,  kindly  interest  for 
cold  indifference;  that,  true  to  them- 
selves and  their  own  honour,  can 
contmue  to  love  a  memory,  though 
it  be  but  the  memory  of  a  dream. 

Tom  felt  as  if  he  could  make  an 
exceedingly  high  bid,  involving 
probity,  character,  good  faith,  and 


M,  or  JV, 


77 


the  whole  of  his  moral  code,  for  an 
auxiliary  who  shoald  help  him  in 
his  vengeance.  Assistance  was  at 
hand  even  now,  in  an  nnezpected 
moment  and  an  nnlooked-for  shape. 

'  A  person  wishes  to  see  yon,  sir, 
if  yon^re  well  enongh/  said  a  little 
housemaid  who  had  Tolunteered  to 
provide  for  the  wants  of  the  in- 
valid, and  took  very  good  care  of 
him  indeed. 

'What  sort  of  a  person?'  asked 
Tom,  langoidly,  feeling,  neverthe- 
less, that  any  distraction  would  he 
a  relief. 

'  Well,  sir,'  replied  the  maid,  '  it 
fleems  a  respectable  person,  I  should 
say.  Like  a  sick-nurse,  or  what- 
not' 

There  is  no  surmise  so  wild  but 
that  a  rejected  lover  will  grasp  at 
and  connect  it  with  the  origin  of  his 
disappointment  '  I'll  see  her,'  said 
Tom,  stoutly,  not  yet  despairing 
but  that  it  might  be  a  messenger 
from  Maud. 

He  certainly  was  surprised  when 
Dorothea,  whom  he  recognized  at 
once,  even  in  her  Sunday  clothes, 
entered  the  room,  with  a  wandering 
eye  and  a  vacillating  step. 

'  Youll  never  forgive  me.  Master 
Tom,'  was  her  startling  salutation. 
'  It*s  me  as  nursed  you  through  it: 
but  you'll  never  forgive  me— never! 
And  I  don't  deserve  as  70a  should.' 

Dorothea  was  nervous,  hysterical, 
but  she  steadied  herself  bravely, 
though  her  fingers  worked  and 
trembled  under  her  fiided  shawL 

Tom  stared,  and  his  visitor  went 
on, 

'  Ton'd  a-died  for  sure  if  I  hadn't 
Don't  ye  cast  it  up  to  me.  Master 
Tom.  I've  been  punished  enongh. 
Punished!  If  I  was  to  bare  my 
arm  now  I  .could  show  you  wheals 
thaf  s  more  colours  and  brighter 
than  your  neckankercher  there. 
I've  been  served  worse  nor  that, 
though,  since.    I  ain't  argoin'  to 

§ut  up  with  it  no  longer.    Master 
'om,  do  you  know  as  you've  been  put 
upon,  and  by  who?' 

His  senses  were  keenly  on  the 
alert.  *  Tell  me  the  truth,  my  good 
girl,'  said  he, '  and  Hi  forgive  you 
all  your  share.  More,  I'll  stick  by 
you  through  thick  and  thin.' 
She  whimpered  a  little,  affected  by 


the  kindness  of  his  tone,  but,  tug- 
ging harder  at  her  shawl,  proceed^ 
to  farther  confessions. 

'  You  was  hocussed,  Master  Tom; 
and  I  can  point  out  to  you  the  man 
as  did  it  You'd  'a  been  murdered 
amongst  'em  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
me.  Who  was  it,  d*ye  think,  as 
nussed  of  you,  and  cared  for  you, 
all  through,  and  laid  out  your 
clothes  ready  brushed  and  folded, 
and  went  and  got  you  a  cab  the 
day  as  you  come  back  here  ?  Master 
Tom,  I've  been  put  upon  too.  Put 
upon  and  deceived,  as  never  yet 
was  bom  woman  used  so  bad ;  and 
it's  my  turn  now!  Look  ye  here. 
Master  Tom.  It's  that  villain,  Jim 
—•Gentleman  Jim,  as  we  c^ls  him — 
what's  been  at  the  bottom  of  this 
here.  And  yet  there's  worse  than 
Jim  in  it  too.  There's  others  that 
set  Jim  on.  Oh!  to  believe  as  a 
fine  handsome  chap  like  him  could 
turn  out  to  be  so  black-hearted, 
and  such  a  soft  too.  She'll  never  think 
no  more  of  him,  for  all  his  comely 
&ce,  than  the  dirt  beneath  her 
feet' 

'SheP  repeated  Tom,  intensely 
interested,  and  therefore  preter- 
naturally  calm.  'What  d'ye  mean 
by  shet  Don't  fret,  thafs  a  good 
girl,  and  don't  exdto  yourself.  Tell 
your  story  your  own  way,  you  know, 
but  keep  as  quiet  as  you  can. 
You're  safe  enough  here.' 

'  We'd  been  asked  in  church,*  re- 
plied Dorothea,  somewhat  inconse- 
quently.  'Ah!  more  than  once, we 
had.  And  I'd  ha'  been  as  true  to 
him,  and  was,  as  ever  a  needle  to  a 
Btitoh.  Well,  sir,  when  he  slights 
of  me,  and  leaves  of  me,  why  if  s 
natural  as  I  should  run  up  and 
down  the  streets  a-lookin'  for  him 
like  wild.  So  one  day,  after  I'd 
done  my  work,  and  put  things 
straight,  for  I  never  was  one  of  your 
sluttish  ones.  Master  Tom  —  and 
your  uncle,  he's  always  been  a  kind 
gentleman  to  me,  and  a  h'affable, 
like  yourself.  Master  Tom— accord- 
ing, I  comes  upon  my  Jim  at  the 
Sunflower,  and  I  follows  him  un- 
beknown for  miles  and  miles  right 
away  to  the  West-end.  So  he  never 
loobs  behind  him,  nor, he  never 
stops,  o'  course,  till  he  comes  to 
Belgrave  Square;    and  he  turns 


78 


M.or  N. 


down  a  street  as  I  oonldn't  read  its 
name,  but  should  know  it  again  as 
well  as  I  know  my  own  hand.  And 
then.  Master  Tom,  if  you'll  believe 
me^  I  thought   as   I   must   have 


veil?'  said  Tom,  not  prepared 
to  be  satisfied  with  this  climax, 
though  lus  companion  stopped,  as  if 
she  had  got  to  the  end  of  her  dis- 
closures. 

'  Well  indeed  I'  resumed  Dorothea 
after  a  considerable  interval,  '  when 
he  come  that  far,  I  know'd  as  he 
must  be  up  to  some  of  his  games, 
and  I  watched.  They  lets  him  into 
a  three-storied  house,  and  I  sees 
him  in  the  best  parlour  with  a  lady, 
speaking  up  to  ner,  but  not  half  so 
bold  as  usual.  He's  not  often 
dashed,  Jim  isn't  I  will  say  that 
for  him.' 

'What  sort  of  a  lady?'  asked 
Tom,  qulTering  with  excitement 
*  You  took  a  gwd  look  at  her,  I'll 
be  bound  1' 

*  Well,  a  real  lady  in  a  muslin 
dress,'  auswered  Dorothea.  '  A  tall 
young  lady— not  much  to  boast  of 
for  looks,  but  with  hair  as  black  as 
your  hat  and  a  face  as  white  as 
cream.  Very  'aughly  too  an  ar- 
bitrary, and  seemed  to  haye  my 
Jim  like  quite  at  her  command. 
So  from  where  I  stood  I  couldn't 
help  hearing  everything  that 
passed.  My  Jim,  he  gives  her  the 
very  letter  as  laid  in  your  pocket 
that  night,  as  you—as  you  was 
taken  so  poorly,  you  know.  And 
from  what  she  said  and  what  he 
said,  and  putting  this  and  that 
together,  I'm  sure  as  they  got  you 
out  of  the  way  between  them.  Mas- 
ter Tom,  and  gammoned  me  into 
the  job  too,  when  I'd  rather  have 
cut  both  my  hands  off,  if  I'd  only 
known  the  truth.' 

Tom  sat  back  on  his  soflE^  shutting 
his  oyes  that  he  might  concentrate 
his  powers  of  reflection.  Yes,  it  was 
all  clear  enough  at  last  The  na- 
ture and  origin  of  the  outrage  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected  were 
obvious,  nor  could  he  entertain  any 
farther  doubt  of  Maud's  motives, 
though  marvelling  exceedingly,  as 
well  he  might,  at  her  courage,  her 
recklessness,  and  the  social  standing 
of  her  accomplice.    It  seemed  to 


him  as  if  he  could  forRive  every  one 
concerned  but  her.  This  poor  wo- 
man who  had  furly  thrown  herself 
on  his  mercy:  the  ruflSan  whose 
grip  had  been  at  his  throat,  but 
who  might  hereafter  prove  as  effi- 
cient an  ally  as  he  had  been  a  for- 
midable enemy.  Only  let  him  have 
Maud  in  his  power,  that  was  all  he 
asked,  praying  him  to  spare  her, 
kneeling  at  his  feet,  and  then  with- 
out a  shade  of  compunction  to  ruin, 
and  crush,  and  humble  her  to  the 
dust! 

He  saw  his  way  presently,  but 
he  must  work  warily,  he  told  him- 
self, and  use  all  the  tools  that  came 
to  his  hand. 

'  If  you  can  clear  the  matter  up, 
Dorothea,'  said  he,  kindly,  '  I  will 
not  visit  your  share  in  it  on  your 
head,  as  I  have  ahready  told  yoo. 
Indeed  I  believe  I  owe  you  my  lifa 
But  this  man  you  mention,  this 
Qentleman  Jim  as  you  call  lum, 
can  you  find  him?  Do  you  know 
where  he  is?  Mypoorgirl!  ItMnk 
I  understand.  Surely  you  deserved 
better  treatment  at  his  hands.' 

The  kind  words  produced  this 
time  no  softening  effect,  and  Tom 
knew  enough  of  human  nature  to 
feel  sure  that  she  was  bent  on  re- 
venge as  earnestly  as  himself,  while 
he  also  knew  that  he  must  take 
advantage  of  her  present  humour 
at  once,  for  it  might  change  in  an 
hour. 

'  If  I  could  lay  my  hand  on  him,' 
answered  Dorothea,  fiercely,  'ifs 
likely  Id  leave  my  markl  I've 
looked  for  him  now,  high  and  low, 
every  evening  and  many  artomoons, 
better  nor  a  week.  I  ain't  come  on 
him  yet,  the  fieilse-hearted  thief! 
but  I  seen  her  only  the  day  before 
yesterday,  seen  her  walk  into  a 
house  in  Bemers  Street  as  bold  as 
you  please.  I  watehed  and  waited 
better  nor  two  hours,  for,  thinks  I, 
he  won't  be  long  follerin';  and  I 
seen  her  come  out  agin  with  a  gen- 
tleman, a  comely  young  gentleman ; 
I'd  know  him  anywheres,  but  he 
wam*t  like  my  Jim.' 

'  Are  you  sure  it  was  the  same 
lady?'  asked  Tom,  eagerly,  but 
ashamed  of  putting  so  unnecessary 
a  question  when  he  saw  the  ex- 
pression of  Dorothea's  lace. 


M.arN. 


79 


'  Am  I  9ure  f  said  she,  with  a 
short  gasping  langh.  '  Do  70a  sup- 
pose as  a  woman  can  be  mistook 
as  has  been  put  upon  like  me? 
Lawyers  is  clever  men,  askin'  yonr 
pfodon,  Mr.  Byfe,  but  there's  not 
mnch  sense  in  such  a  question  as 
yoors:  I  seen  the  lady  sir,  and  I 
seen  the  honse;  thafs  enongh  for 

'And  yon  obeerred  the  gentle- 
man narrowly?*  oontinned  Tom, 
stifling  down  a  little  pang  of  jea- 
lousy that  was  surely  unreasonable 
now. 

'  Well,  I  didn't  take  much  notice 
of  the  gentleman,'  answered  Doro- 
thea, wearily,  for  the  reaction  was 
coming  on  apace.  '  It  warn't  my 
Jim  I  know.  Tou  and  me  has 
both  been  used  bad.  Master  Tom, 
and  it's  a  shame,  it  is.  But  the 
weather's  imcommon  close,  and  if  s 
a  long  walk  here  and  I'm  a'most 
fit  to  drop,  askin'  your  pardon,  sir. 
I  wrote  aown  the  number  of  the 
'onse.  Master  Tom,  to  make  sure— 
fliere  it  is.  If  jrou  please.  111  go 
down  stairs,  and  ask  the  servants 
for  a  cup  o'  tea,  and  I  wish  you  a 
good  artemoon,  sir,  and  am  glad  to 
see  you  lookin*  a  trifle  better  at 
last' 

80  Dorothea  departed  to  enjoy 
the  luxury  of  strong  tea  and  un- 
limited gossip  with  Mr.  Bargrave's 
household,  drawing  largely  on  her 
inTontion  in  explanation  of  her  re- 
cent interview,  but  affording  them 
no  clue  to  the  real  object  of  her 
visit 

Tom  Byfe  was  still  puzzled.  That 
Maud  (he  could  not  endure  to 
think  of  her  as  Lady  Bearwarden)— 
that  Maud  should,  so  soon  after  her 
marriage,  be  seen  going  about  Lon- 
don by  herself  under  such  question- 
able circumstances  was  strange, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  even  making 
allowances  for  her  recklessness  and 
wflful  disposition,  of  which  no  one 
eould  be  better  aware  than  himself. 
What  could  be  her  object?  though 
he  loved  her  so  fiercely  in  his  own 
way,  he  had  no  great  opinion  of  her 
discretion ;  and  now,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  anger,  was  prepared  to 
put  the  very  worst  ccmstruction 
upon  everything  she  did.  He  re- 
called, painfully  enough,  a  previous 


occasion  on  which  he  bad  met  her, 
as  he  believed,  walking  with  a 
stranger  in  the  Park,  and  did  not 
forget  her  displeasure  while  cutting 
short  his  inquiries  on  the  subject 
After  all,  it  occurred  to  him  almost 
immediately  that  the  person  with 
whom  she  had  been  lately  seen  was 
probably  her  own  husband.  He 
would  not  himself  have  described 
Lord  Bearwarden  exactly  as  a 
'  comely  young  gentleman,'  but  on 
the  subject  of  manly  beauty  Do- 
rothea's taste  was  probably  more 
reliable  than  his  own.  If  so,  how- 
ever, what  could  they  be  doing  in 
Bemers  Street?  Pshaw  1  How  this 
illness  had  weakened  his  intellect  I 
Having  her  picture  painted,  of 
course!  what  else  could  bring  a 
doting  couple,  married  only  a  few 
weeks,  to  that  nart  of  the  town? 
He  cursed  Dorothea  bitterly  for  her 
ridiculous  surmises  and  specula- 
tions—cursed the  fond  pair— cursed 
his  own  wild  unconquerable  folly — 
cursed  the  day  he  first  set  eyes  on 
that  fatal  beauty,  so  maddening  to 
his  senses,  so  destructive  to  his 
heart;  and  thus  cursing  staggered 
across  the  room  to  take  his  strengUi- 
em'ng  draught,  looked  at  his  pile, 
worn  faee  in  the  glass,  and  sat  down 
again  to  think. 

The  doctor  had  visited  him  at 
noon,  and  stated  witli  proper  cau- 
tion that  in  a  day  or  two,  if  amend- 
ment still  progressed  satis&ctorily, 
'  carriage  exercise,'  as  he  called  it, 
might  be  taken  with  undoubted 
benefit  to  the  invalid.  We  all 
know,  none  better  than  medical 
men  tiiemselves,  that  if  your  doctor 
says  you  may  get  up  to-morrow, 
vou  jump  out  of  bed  the  moment 
his  back  is  turned.  Tom  Byfe, 
worried,  agitated,  unable  to  rest 
where  he  was,  resolved  that  he  would 
take  his  carriage-exercise  without 
delay,  and  to  &e  housemaid's  as- 
tonishment, indeed  much  against 
her  protest,  ordered  a  Hansom  cab 
to  the  door  at  once. 

Though  so  weak  he  could  not 
dress  without  assistance,  he  no 
sooner  found  himself  on  the  move, 
and  out  of  doors,  than  he  began  to 
feel  stronger  and  better;  he  had  no 
object  in  driving  b^bnd  change  of 
scene,  air,  and  exercise;  but  it  will 


80 


The  Piceadmy  Papers. 


not  STurprifle  those  who  have  snf- 
fered  from  the  cruel  thirst  and 
longing  which  accompanies  such 
mental  maladies  as  bis,  that  he 
should  have  directed  the  cabman  to 
proceed  to  Bemers  Street. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  when 
we  thus  '  draw  a  bow  at  a  yenture ' 
our  random  shaft  hits  the  mark  we 
might  have  aimed  at  for  an  hour  in 
vain.  Tom  Kyfe  esteemed  it  an 
unlooked-for  piece  of  good  fortune 
that  turning  out  of  Oxford  Street  he 
should  meet  another  Hansom  going 
at  speed  in  an  opposite  direction, 
and  containing— yes»  he  could  haye 


sworn  to  them  before  any  jury  in 
England — ^the  faces,  yery  near  each 
other,  of  Lady  Bearwarden  and 
Dick  Stanmore. 

It  was  enough.  Dorothea's  state- 
ment seemed  sufficiently  corrobo- 
rated, and  after  proceeding  to  the 
number  she  indicated,  as  if  to  satisfy 
himself  that  the  house  had  not 
walked  bodily  away,  Mr.  Ryfe  re- 
turned home  yery  much  benefited  in 
his  own  opinion  by  the  driye,  though 
the  doctor,  yisiting  his  patient  next 
day,  was  disappointed  to  find  him 
still  low  and  feyerish,  altogether 
not  so  much  better  as  he  expected. 


THE  PICCADILLT  PAPEES. 

Bt  a  Pbbipatstic. 


FOBSTEB'S  LI7£  OF  LANDOB.* 


MR.  FORSTER  has  in  his  time 
rendered  many  and  massiye  ser- 
yices  to  Enghsh  literature  and  his- 
tory, although  we  must,  by  way,  even 
here,  enter  our  caveat  against  the  one- 
sided political  character  of  his  his- 
tories. But,  on  the  whole,  he  has  per^ 
haps  written  no  better  book  than  this, 
winch,  for  the  subject  and  its  treat- 
ment, is  the  most  interesting  book 
he  has  done.  Walter  Say  age  Land  or 
was  a  yery  king  among  men,  stand- 
ing head  and  .shoulders  aboye  his 
contemporaries.  He  was  neyer  a  po- 
pular writer.  The '  Imaginary  Gon- 
yersations,'  indeed,  is  a  work  with 
which  most  general  [readers  are  on 
some  terms  of  acquaintance.  A  few 
stray  lines  of  his  poetry  haye  also 
passed  into  the  language,  and  are  uni- 
yersally  known.  But  besides  this 
Landor  yery  rarely  penetrated  be- 
yond the  esoteric  circle  of  gifted  men 
who  entertained  for  him  a  most  x>as- 
sionate  admiration,  and  who  claimed 
for  him  a  higher  place  than  was 
granted  to  him  by  the  mass  of  his 
contemporaries,  but  perhaps  not 
higher  than  will  be  conceded  by  a 
later  age.  But,  at  the  same  time,  a 
yery  strong  personal   interest  has 

♦  « Walter  Savage  Landor.'  A  Bio- 
graphy. By  John  Forster.  Two  vob. 
Chapman  and  Hall. 


always  belonged  to  this  most  won- 
derful old  man.  To  him,  if  to  any 
man,  belonged  a  most  strongly- 
marked  indiyiduality.  He  was  a 
man  who  was  always  a  law  to  him- 
self, which  means  that  be  was  law- 
less in  respect  to  othera;  daringly 
but  irregularly  great— great  both  in 
his  attainments  and  his  originality; 
headstrong,  yiolent,  imprudent,  but 
chiyalrous,  tender,  «nd  generous  to 
the  highest  conoeiyable  degree.  It 
was  well  known  that  he  was  obliged 
to  leaye  England  under  a  cloud, 
under  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
well-earned  obloquy.  Mr.  Forster 
has  written  his  work  with  a  iaimess 
and  impartiality  to  which  biography 
in  general  is  almost  a  stranger.  He 
has  told  us,  with  kindness  and  can- 
dour, of  the  errors  of  a  great  man 
most  &tal]y  misguided  as  guided 
only  by  his  own  wHl,  but  the  general 
result  of  his  work  will  be  to  make 
Landor  infinitely  better  understood 
by  his  countrymen,  and  greatly  to 
raise  the  general  estimate  of  his 
character. 

It  is  essentially  a  literary  bio- 
graphy, and  the  reader  will  find 
much  keen  and  delicate  criticism 
of  Lander's  yaried  writings.  Its 
yalue  as  a  thoughtful  literary  work 
will  in  this  respect  be  considerably 


The  PiccadiUy  Papers. 


81 


enhanced,  tboagh  its  immediate  po- 
pularity may  perhaps  be  depre- 
ciated. Bat  with  occasional  ossistr 
ance  of  much  service  from  such 
illustrious  coadjutors  as  Southey, 
Julius  Hare,  Sir  Frederick  Pollock, 
DickeDR.  Browning,  Algernon  Swin- 
burne, Mr.  Forster  has  given  us  an  in- 
tellectual portraiture  of  Landor  of 
tlie  highest  degree  of  finish  and  per- 
fection. We  are  told  that  it  was  at 
Lander's  house  that  Dickens  first 
devised  the  conception  of  Little 
Nell  in  the  '  Old  Curiosity  Shop/ 
«ftd  Mr.  Forster  tells  us  that  Dickens 
depicted  Landor  in  the  portraiture 
of  Boythorn  in '  Bleak  Hoase.'  But 
the  cheery  loudness  and  playful  ex- 
ploeiveness  of  the  Boythorn  in  fic- 
tion point  to  some  unpleasant  facts 
in  the  Landor  of  reality— the  swift 
wrath,  the  utter  impracticableness, 
the  unwisdom,  the  unrest  At  Ox- 
ford, although  he  was  a  thorough 
floholar,  that  would  have  delighted 
the  hearts  of  dons,  he  was  sent  away 
because  he  foolishly  discharged  a 
gun  against  a  don's  window.  He 
displeased  the  best  parents  in  the 
world  by  such  a  wish  as  that  the 
French  would  hang  George  the 
Third  between  two  such  thieves 
as  the  Archbishops  of  Canterbury 
and  York.  When  his  good  mother 
heard  this  speech,  she  immediately 
rose  i^m  her  seat  and  boxed  her 

goeoocious  son's  ears.  It  would  be 
ardly  too  much  to  say  that 
throughout  life  Landor  was  always 
making  such  speeches  and  always 
getting  his  ears  boxed.  At  the 
same  time  Landor  was  a  man  whose 
knowledge  of  Greek  was  prodigious, 
and  who  wrote  Latin  poetry,  not 
only  with  the  Latinity,  but  with 
the  freshness  and  independence  of 
a  Latin-born  poet  There  was  one 
man  who  loved  both  his  letters  and, 
his  liberalism,  and  this  was  Dr.' 
Parr,  who,  in  spite  of  all  his  per- 
secutions, passed  an  intensely  en- 
joyable life,  and  left  a  large  for- 
tune behind  him.  Landor  was  only 
twenty-three  when  he  brought  out 
his  great  poem,  beloved  by  poets, 
of  '  Gebir.*^  He  was  at  Paris  when 
Bonaparte  was  First  Consul,  and 
had  a  good  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving him  narrowly.  It  was  won- 
derful to  hear  Landor,  in  his  old 

VOL  XVI.— NO.  XCL 


age,  describing  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
as  a  slim  young  man.  Li  later  life, 
when  living  in  Bath,  he  had  a  visit 
from  the  nephew,  the  present  Em- 
peror. He  sent  Landor  his  work  on 
'  Artillery  :*  '  Temoigne  d'estime  de 
la  part  du  Prince  Napoleon  Louis 
B.,  qui  appr^cie  le  vraie  m^rite 
quelque  oppos^  qu'il  soit  a  ses  sen- 
timents et  k  son  opinion.'  Mr. 
Forster  has  an  interesting  note, 
saying  that  at  the  very  time  when 
Landor  thus  met  Louis  Napoleon  in 
Bafh  (1846), '  there  was  ia  a  board- 
ing-school twelve  miles  off,  on  the 
Clifton  Downs,  a  pretty  girl— grand- 
niece  to  a  maiden  lady  living  in  a 
very  small  house  at  Dumfries— who 
is  now  Empress  of  France.' 

But  we  must  return  to  the  earlier 
current  of  Lander's  days,  idthough 
our  space  does  not  permit  us  to 
make  even  an  abstract  of  Mr. 
Forster's  volumes.  For  some  time 
Landor  resided,  an  alien  and  exile 
from  home,  in  South  Wales,  and, 
with  a  strongly-marked  attachment 
to  localities,  he  always  looked  back 
kindly  on  the  neighbourhood  of 
Swansea.  In  due  time  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  familj  estates  in  Staf- 
fordshire; and  if  he  had  been  ca- 
llable of  the  least  prudence  and 
restraint  he  might  have  been  a 
wealthy  squire  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  But  he  soon  began  to  be 
extravagant  and  to  be  in  love.  He 
fonnd  a  heroine  whom  he  chose  to 
call  Ion3,  'a  name  translated  far  too 
easily  into  Jones;'  and  presently 
another  young  .iroman  orops  up 
called  lontb^.  ,The  time  was  not 
altogether  ill  spent,  for  he  visited 
Spain,  he  wrote  a  tragedy,  and  he 
formed  a  lifelong  friendship  with 
Southey,  charming  the  poet's  heart 
by  an  offer  to  be  at  the  cost  of  print- 
ing epics  as  &st  as  he  should  write 
them.  He  fixed  his  heart  upon  Llan- 
thony  Abbey  and  its  estates,  and  to 
complete  this  purchase  he  had  to 
make  complicated  arrangements, 
parting  with  bis  ancestral  estate, 
causing  his  mother  to  part  with 
hers,  and  having  to  obtain  a  private 
Act  of  Parliament  In  after  years, 
Landor  came  to  a  very  pretty  place, 
on  which  he  gazed  with  enthusiasm 
and  longed  to  possess,  and  he  was 
told  that  it  was  part  of  his  own 


sa 


The  PieeadOff  jhi9>en. 


anoertiftl  estate  which  he  bad  sold 
in  order  to  pnrdiase  Llanthony. 
It  became  necessary  that  he  should 
give  Llanthony  a  mistress.  Ac- 
cordingly he  married  a  youog  lady 
on  the  high  gionnd  that  she  had 
very  few  pretensions  and  no  fortone. 
'  The  marriage  took  (rfaoe  before  the 
end  of  May.  It  had  all  been  ar* 
ranged  and  settled  after  the  manner 
of  the  eternal  friendship  between 
Cecilia  and  Matilda  in  the  *'  Anti- 
jacobin."  A  sudden  thought  had 
struck  him  and  the  thing  was  done. 
He  had  married  a  pretty  little  girl, 
of  whom  he  seems  literally  to  have 
had  no  other  tkoowledge  than  that 
she  had  moreonrls  on  her  head  than 
any  other  girl  in  Bath.' 

Landor  made  a  sad  business  both 
of  his  wife  and  of  his  estate.  There 
were  great  difficulties  in  both,  but 
so  much  m««e  might  have  been 
made  of  both.  There  was  too  great 
a  difference  in  their  ages,  and 
Landor  had  not  the  tact  and  skill 
to  compose  this  and  still  greater 
diffiarenoes.  *  I  must  do  the  little 
wife  the  justice  to  say/  wrote  his 
brother  Robert,  one  of  the  justest 
and  wisest  of  men,  'that  I  saw 
much  of  her,  about  three  years  after 
her  marriage,  during  a  long  journey 
through  France  and  Italy,  and  that 
I  left  her  with  regret  and  pity.' 
Similarly  the  Welsh  among  whom 
he  had  settled  himself  were  people 
requiring  judicious  and  adroit  ma- 
nagement, a  system  of  which  Landor 
was  utterly  incapable.  Landor  was 
as  unstable  aa  water.  He  intended 
to  rebuild  the  abbey,  but  he  didn't; 
to  build  himself  a  fine  residence,  but 
he  didn't ;  to  plant  a  million  of  trees, 
but  he  didn't ;  to  reform  and  civilize 
the  Llanthony  world,  but  he  didn't. 
He  found  it  the  speediest  escape  out 
of  his  troubles  to  run  away  both 
from  hiBwife  and  his  estate;  but  he 
discovered  afterwards  that  it  was 
not  so  easy  to  make  an  escape  from 
such  troubles.  Mr.  Forster  speaks 
of  the  evil  and  stubborn  qualities 
of  the  Welsh ;  but  Landor  ought  to 
have  made  the  best  and  not  the 
worst  of  things.  Bullied  by  the 
Welsh,  he  thought  of  establishing 
himself  as  a  French  citizen  in 
some  provincial  town  of  France. 
The  plan  was  given  up,  and  after 


a  dreary  section  entitled  'Private 
DiFputes,'  dealing  with  lawsuits 
and  annoyances,  we  find  him  mi- 
grating to  Italy,  and  after  many 
wanderings  settling  down  in  Flo- 
rence. HehadtheMedicaoanpalazzo 
then,  but  he  contrived  to  make 
himsalf  ol»oxioua  to  the  authorities, 
and  received  otdem  to  quit  Tus- 
cany. He  managed,  however,  a 
charming  villa  ai  Fiesol^,  asflod- 
ated  with  Michael  Angek>  and 
Machiavelli,  with  Galileo  and  with 
Milton.  It  wag  bought  very 
cheaply.  It  is  pleasant^  too,  to 
read,  when  we  hear  of  Lander's  un- 
bounded generosity  to  others,  that 
his  generous  friaad  Ablett  advanced 
him  the  money  for  the  pon^uae,  and 
would  have  forced  it  upon  him  as 
a  present  When  the  mon^  was 
after  various  years  repaid  Ablett 
refused  to  accept  any  money  for  its 
usa 

Years  after  Landor  had  left  the 
plaee  Charles  Dickens  visited  it 
He  drove  out  to  Fiesol^  and  aaked 
the  coachman  to  point  out  to  bim 
Lander's  villa.  But  we  will  let 
Mr.  Dickens  speak  for  himselt 
'  He  was  a  dull  dog,  and  pointed  to 
Boccaccio's.  I  didn't  believe  him. 
He  was  so  deuced  ready  that  I 
knew  he  lied.  I  went  up  to  the 
convent,  which  is  on  a  height,  and 
was  leaning  over  a  dwarf  wall 
looking  a*  the  noble  view  over  a 
vast  range  of  hill  and  valley,  when 
a  little  peasant  girl  came  up  and 
began  to  point  out  the  localities. 
"Eoco  la  Villa  Landora!"  ma  one 
of  the  first  half-dozen  sentences  she 
spoke.  My  heart  swelled  almost  as 
Lander's  would  have  done  when  I 
looked  down  upon  it,  nestling 
among  its  olive-trees  and  vines, 
and  with  its  upper  windows  (there 
are  five  above  the  door)  open  to  the 
setting  sun.  Over  the  centre  of 
these  there  is  another  stoiy,  set 
upon  the  housetop  like  a  tower; 
and  all  Italy,  except  its  sea,  is 
melted  down  into  the  glowing  land- 
scape it  commands.  I  plucked  a 
leaf  of  ivy  from  the  convent  garden 
as  I  looked;  and  here  it  is.  "For 
Landor,  with  my  love." '  So  writes 
Mr.  Dickens  to  our  biographer. 
From  thLB  paradisaical  retreat  he 
tears  himself  away  by  voluntary 


The  PiccadSay  Pofen. 


88 


self-  banishmeni  He  quarrelled 
with  his  wife,  and  in  the  course  of 
this  qnarrel  acted  with  the  most 
absuid  inoansistency.  He  says  that 
his  wife  used  language  to  him 
which  was  intolerable  in  the  pre* 
sence  of  his  children.  It  seems 
probable  that  Lander's  complaint 
against  his  wife  was  well  founded ; 
bat  what  can  we  think  of  him  as 
a  father  for  deserting  his  children 
for  00  many  years  and  surrendering 
them  entirely  to  a  parent  whose 
conduct  he  deliberately  disap- 
proved? Even  while  in  Italy  ho 
had  made  flying  visits  to  England, 
refrahing  himself  with  old  family 
associations  and  literary  companion- 
ship, and  taking  with  him  many 
worthless  pictures  which  had  been 
imposed  upon  his  want  of  taste. 
He  now  settled  himself  at  Bath, 
where  he  continued  fbr  one-and- 
twenty  years  iJie  greatest  of  its  local 
celebrities.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
speak  at  length  of  the  sad  events 
that  drove  him  away  tmrn  Bath. 
He  mixed  himself  up  in  a  miserable 
quarrel  about  a  governess,  and 
speedily  found  himself  involved  in 
an  action  for  libeL  He  was  a  man 
who  had  always  put  passion  before 
reason,  but  would  ultimately  return 
to  a  better  mind.  This  better  mind 
seemed  to  desert  him  at  the  last,  and 
Landor  was  now  a  different  being  to 
the  Landor  whohad  once  been.  When 
he  published  Ms  'Dry  Sticks  Fag- 
goted,' strongly  against  Mr.  Forsters 
remonstrance,  he  wished  to  add  on 
the  title-page,  '  By  the  late  W.  8. 
Landor/  which  in  one  sense  might 
have  been  truly  said,  and  was  with 
difficulty  dissuaded.  The  slander 
business  originated  in  Landor*^ 
desire  to  have  the  declivity  of  life 
smoothed  for  him  by  the  oompaaJbH'- 
ship  of  charming  yoong  ladies.  He 
had  formerly  promulgated  his  opi- 
nion on  this  subject  in  that  favourite 
'Imaginary  Dialogue,'  in  which 
Epicurus  shows  two  handsome 
Atheiyaa  girls  of  sixteen  and 
eightMn  his  new  garden,  and  ex« 
pounds  to  them  his  philosophy. 
But,  as  Mr.  Forster  somewhat 
grimly  remarks,  '  Everything  de- 
pends in  such  a  case  upon  the 
choice  of  your  Temissa  and  Leon- 
tion.'     With    Landor    irascibilily 


grew  into  madness ;  you  were  either 
a  fiend  or  an  angel  with  him.  In 
his  usual  insensate  way  he  violated 
an  undertaking  not  to  reproduce 
the  libel,  and  was  cast  in  oamages 
for  a  thousand  pounds  with  costs. 
He  was  determined  not  to  pay,  but 
to  settle  his  property  on  his  children 
and  to  flee  the  country.  In  the  last 
part  of  his  design  he  easily  suc- 
ceeded, but  the  opposite  lawyers 
were  too  sharp  for  him  and  got  their 
money.  On  his  flight  he  stopp^l 
in  London  at  Mr.  Forster's,  and 
Mr.  Dickens,  who  went  to  see  him 
in  his  bedroom,  'came  back  into 
the  room  laughing,  and  said  that  he 
found  him  very  jovial,  and  his 
whole  conversation  was  upon  the 
characters  of  Catullus,  GKbullns, 
and  other  Latin  poets.'  Then  he 
went  back  to  Italy,  living  six  years 
longer.  His  domestic  unhappiness 
involved  him  in  a  great  deal  of 
misery,  but  Mr.  Browning  very 
nobly  came  to  his  help  and  did  him 
infinite  service.  '  Whatever  he  may 
profess,'  says  Mr.  Browning,  'the 
thing  he  really  loves  is  a  pretty  girl 
to  talk  nonsense  with.' 

There  has  hardly  been  for  years 
past  a  literary  biography  so  full  and 
perfect  as  this  by  Mr.  Forster.  It 
would  be  easy  to  cull  many  pas- 
sages of  very  great  literary  and 
social  interest.  One  only  criticism, 
which  we  advance  with  much  diffi- 
dence, is,  that  there  might  have 
been  more  compression  and  the  book 
be  brought  within  narrower  limits. 
Also,  upon  the  whole,  we  are  doubt- 
ful whether  Landor  sufficiently  de- 
served such  an  elaborate  biography. 
Although  he  is  probably  destined 
for  a  still  higher  fame  than  he  has  as 
yet  received,  the  thoroughly  Greek 
character  of  his  mind  will  only  in-* 
sure  him  an  audience  fit  and  few. 
Besides  his  Greek  we  are  afraid  he 
was  a  thorough  heathen.  In  intel- 
lectual power  he  touched  the  nadit; 
in  moral  power  he  sunk  ahnost  below 
zero. 

TEE  ItOYAL  ACADEMY. 

We  would  not  that  the  Boyal 
Academy  should  gloriously  inan« 
gurate  the  Eccond  century  of  ite 
bright  existence  within  ite  new  and 
noble  halls  without  a  word  of  greet- 
a  a 


84 


The  PieeadiUff  Pcgpers. 


iDg  from  the  Peripatotio.    The  edi- 
fice itself  formB  the  most  remarkable 
item  of  the  present  ezhibitioiL    The 
critics  have  now  all  had  their  say, 
and,  of  course,  have  been  obliged  to 
be  critical ;  but  allowing  the  grumble 
that  there  is  only  one  spacious  room 
for  the  sake  of  the  banquet,  we  believe 
also  that  the  smaller  rooms  form  ad- 
mirable galleries.     There  has  also 
been  a   great  deal   of  grumbling 
about  the  pictures,  and  it  may  be 
granted  both  that  there  have  been 
some  unfair  disappointment,  and 
also  that  some  of  the  Academicians 
have   much  too  liberally   availed 
themselves  of  the  space  which  is 
coDstitutionally   at  tneir  disposal. 
Still  I  maintain,  contrary  to  much 
very  positive  opinion,  that  the  ex- 
hibition of  this  year  is,  as  an  exhi- 
bition, exceedingly   good.      There 
are  paintings  here  which,  in  the 
effect  which  they  produce  upon  the 
spectator,  and  in  the  memaries  which 
they  leave  behind,  arerarely  equalled. 
There  are  few  more  deb'ghtnil  em- 
ployments than  the  gradual  accumu- 
lation of  notes  to  one's  fresh  copy  of 
the  Catalogue,  now  in  tinted  cover 
and  minu8  the  choice  quotation  as 
motto.     We  are  not  disappointed 
in  the  names  there,  nor  yet  m  the  re- 
sults to  be  associated  with  the  names. 
We  go  at  once  to  Landseer,  Poole, 
Millus,    Creswick,    dope,    O'Neil, 
Frith,  Goodal,  and  a  few  other  cele- 
brated men,  and  then  we  leisurely 
work  through  the  new  or  rising 
names  to  see  with  whom  may  rest 
the  palm  on  account  of  the  'in- 
genium  et  labor.'  But  though  plea- 
sant to  make  annotations,  it  would 
hardly  be  fair,  at  this  time  of  the 
da^,  to  transfer  the  annotations  to 
prmt;  otherwise  we  would  like  to 
diBOUss  at  length  the  savage  power 
shown  in  Landseer's  greatest  but 
painful  picture  of  the  Swannery  at- 
tacked by  Sea-eagles ;  Millais's  stately 
women  aod  beautiful  children,  when 
perhaps,  the  drapery  allows  him  to 
work  rather  too  rapidly ;  the  exqui- 
site  oriental    pictures   of    Lewis, 
where  (in  157)  many  worthy  souls 
puzzle  themselves  to  find  out  the 
letter;  Poole's  Lorenzo  and  Jessica, 
and  so  on;  to  point  out  our  fa- 
vourites to  the  fnendly  reader,  and 
entreat  him  to  admire  them  with  us. 


As  each  man  takes  his  special  favour- 
ite, we  will  avow  that  Faed's  little 
picture,  '  Alone  by  Herself,'  in  the 
simplicify  of  its  pathos  and  poetry 
is  unique  in  the  exhibition.  As  an 
example,  too,  of  sound  honest  study 
expended  on  a  fine  passage  of  Uterary 
history  we  greatly  like  Mr.  Crowe's 
*  Penance  of  Dr.  Johnson,  768.'  He 
stood  in  the  rain  all  day  in  the  mar- 
ket-place at  Uttoxeter,  to  expiate  the 
sin  of  disobedience  to  his  father. 
Many  have  laughed  over  the  inci- 
dent, but  the  truest  criticism  was 
that  of  an  old  lady, '  And  let  us  hope 
the  sin  was  expiated.' 

Next  to  Mr.  Woolner's  works, 
perhaps  the  most  interesting  speci- 
men is  the  Princess  Louise's  excel- 
lent head  and  bust  of  the  Queen. 
Here  the  intimate  knowledge  of  her 
mother  has  supplied  touches  unat- 
tainable to  the  sculptor.  The  Prin- 
cess stands  in  the  first  rank  of  ama- 
teur art,  and  perhaps  something 
more.  But  we  have  only  time  to 
greet  the  new  halls,  and  bid  them, 
literally,  adieu.  We  had  only  as- 
signed ourselves  a  very  bri^  space 
for  this,  and  the  space  is  full. 

TBI  lATE  O.  H.  TH0MA8*8  EXHI- 
BITIOK  OF  PAINTINGS. 

From  the  various  exhibitions  we 
can  only  devote  a  brief  space  to  the 
exhibition  of  the  pictures  of  the  late 
Mr.  G.  H.  Thomas,  not  unmindful 
of  the  genius  and  good  taste  with 
which  he  so  often  adorned  our  pages. 
We  may  venture  regretfully  to  think, 
that  with  all  his  exceUenoe  he  had 
hardly  reached  his  culminating 
point  when  he  was  out  off  by  pre- 
mature death.  In  his  numerpus 
works  there  is  abundant  proof  of 
the  conscientiousness,  thoroughness, 
study,  and  thought  which  are  often 
such  large  constituents  in  genius, 
and  which  corresponded  so  well 
with  the  well-known  high  and 
kindly  nature  of  the  man.  No  one 
had  a  swifter  and  more  discern- 
ing eye  than  her  gracious  Majesty, 
to  observe  and  give  judicions  en- 
couragement to  this  artist's  ex- 
traordinary ability.  The  Queen's 
numerous  contributions  to  this  ex- 
hibition give  it  ore  of  its  best 
charms,  and  attest  how  much  she 


THe  Piceadittp  Papers. 


85 


Talned  the  nnmerons  compositioos 
that  were  done  at  her  command. 
Going  carefally  throagh  this  ool- 
lection  of  170  pictures  and  draw- 
ings, one  is  greatly  stnick  by  the 
immense  yersatiUty  they  display. 
The  fftoes  of  little  children  and  of 
fiur  women,  manly  energy  in  all  the 
life  and  movement  of  the  human 
figure,  pastoral  landscape  with  rivu- 
let or  river,  bits  of  sea  or  woodland, 
the  glorious  sky  of  Italy  or  the  sky 
hardly  less  glorious  of  England  on 
a  deep  summer  day — touches  of 
pathos,  of  humour,  of  tenderness,  of 
reflection,  are  everywhere  around 
us,  of  a  pretty  uniform  high  order 
of  excellence.  Nothing  is  more  re- 
markable than  the  way  in  which  the 
artist  has  seized  very  different  de- 
partments, such  as  foliage  in  the 
'  Apple-blossom,'  or  horses,  such  as 
in  the  wonderful  painting  of  Master- 
lees,'  or,  again,  French  subjects  as  in 
the  '  Dimanche/  in  a  way  so  thorough 
and  earnest  that  he  might  have  con- 
centrated his  artist  life  in  any  one  of 
thedirections  indicated.  Some  of  the 
pictures  suggest  more  or  less  criti- 
cism, but  with  tiiis  we  do  not  here 
propose  to  trouble  our  readers.  A 
great  interest  attaches  to  those  cases 
where  we  are  able  to  compare  the 
earlier  studies  with  the  finished 
design,  or  to  note  the  point  where 
the  cunning  hand  of  the  limner  was 
arrested.  It  gives  a  peculiar  in- 
terest to  the  collection  to  know  that 
throughout  his  later  career  the 
gifted  industrious  artist  was  strug- 
gling against  disease. 

We  were  greatly  struck  with  the 
picture  which  is  first  in  the  Oatap- 
logue,  'The  Train.'  Prith's  'Rail- 
way Station'  was  a  great  picture, 
but  our  artists  have  not  yet  done 
for  modem  locomotion  what  their 
predecessors  have  done  for  the  road. 
The  ndl  may  seem  a  prosaic  and 
commonplace  subject,  but  Mr. 
Thomas  shows  us  how  much  beauty 
it  may  yield.  It  is  a  long  railway 
cutting  through  woodland  arched 
by  a  viaduct  An  express  train 
comes  tearing  along  at  full  speed. 
A  group  of  rustics,  women  and 
children,  are  watching  with  won- 
dering, half-fearful  fiices.  The  time 
is  evening,  and  the  long  wreath  of 
curling  steam  contrasts  well  with 


the  leaden  clouds,  and  through  a 
rent  in  them  the  blood-red  sun  looks 
down  upon  the  pictura  The  sub- 
ject is  real  enough  in  all  conscience, 
but  it  has  both  poetry  and  mystery. 
The  paintmg  to  which  we  have  al- 
luded above,  '  Masterless  *  (9),  is,  to 
our  mind,  the  most  remarkable  in 
the  collection.  It  is  his  most  ideal 
painting.  It  is  also  his  last,  a  pro- 
phecy of  what  might  have  been  in 
the  future.  The  sun  sets  in  a  wild 
tempest  of  glory  on  a  barren  heath, 
and  over  this  comes  careering,  in 
mad  infuriated  flight,  a  riderless 
horse;  the  cloaks  and  holsters  have 
slipp^  aside ;  the  startled  eye  and 
smoking  nostril  seem  to  tell  us  that 
he  is  flying  from  the  horror  of  the 
battle-field  in  wild  search  for  his 
master,  and  that  the  weakness  of 
fatigue  will  soon  check  his  speed. 
The  picture  of  animal  suffering  and 
fidelity  amid  the  desolation  of  war 
and  nature  is  exceedingly  touching 
and  suggestive,  and  instinct  with 
that  dramatic  action  which  this  ar- 
tist developes  so  peculiarly  well. 

We  proceed  firom  pictures  to 
groups  of  pictures.  It  so  happened 
that  we  had  just  returned  from  a 
run  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  reviving 
former  impressions,  and  so  were 
able  to  judge  freshly  of  the  nu- 
merous sketches  from  the  island^ 
Shanklin,  Freshwater,  Alum  Bay^ 
&c.,  and  their  extraordinary  fidelity 
to  special  details.  The  numerous 
landscapes  have  a  truth  at  once 
frankly  recognised  by  memory  and 
the  heart.  Those  of  our  readers 
who,  when  staying  at  Boulogne, 
had  an  opportunity  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  inner  life  of  the 
camp  will  enjoy  wonderfully  the 
picture  of  the  *  Ball.'  We  perceive 
that  this  is  about  to  be  engraved  on 
steel.  Thegrisette  in  'Dimanche' 
would  do  for  Victor  Hugo's  '  Fta- 
tine '  in  that  bright  summer  day  at 
St.  Oloud.  The  pictures  in  the  col- 
lection which  are  historical,  as  time 
goes  on  will  acquire  a  constantly 
increasing  value.  They  are  mainly 
the  Queen's  property.  We  observe- 
that  (170)  *  The  First  Distribution 
of  the  Victoria  Gross'  is  also  to  be 
engraved. 

This  collection  in  the  Lawrence 
Gk&llery,  New  Bond  Stieety  has  oer- 


S6 


The  Piccadittg  P€gfer9. 


tai]i]y  a  nniqne  intereei  It  should 
be  Btadied  as  a  whole,  with  its 
stamp  of  distanctiye  indmdiiality. 
The  laboaiB  of  a  life-time  are 
brought  together,  in  graduated 
steps  of  excellence ;  we  tiaoe  a  life- 
history  throughout  their  diTersities 
and  affluence  of  skill.  As  a  oollec- 
tioD,  we  have  said  enough  to  inti- 
mate our  opinion  that  it  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  ever  submitted 
to  the  public,  and  we  may  also  add 
that  in  its  hints  and  teachings  in- 
dicative of  progTMsiye  steps  in  true 
work  and  workmanship,  it  nas  a  real 
educational  value. 

HDTAXBS  nf  IiDlB. 

I  met  with  a  very  able  man  some 
time  ago  who  ingeniously  argued 
that  there  were  no  such  things  as 
mi^Akes  in  lifew  He  was  in  eveiy- 
tiung  an  optimist :  '  Whatever  is»  is 
right'  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
have  coincided  in  a  view  of  things 
so  eminently  cheerful  and  consola- 
tory. I  put  the  case  rather  ooAiaely 
and  practically  to  him.  'Suppose 
you  broke  your  leg.'  My  friena  re- 
plied with  much  fervour  that  such 
an  aocident  would  really  prove  an 
eicellent  thing  for  him.  Now  there 
is  a  case  'on  &b  books'  in  which  a 
Iwoken  leg  turned  out  to  be  a  signal 
advantage.  There  was  a  good  bishop 
who  was  arrested  in  the  Maiian 
times  and  ordered  to  be  brought  up 
to  London.  He  was  noted  for  his 
implicit  belief  in  a  providential  order 
of  things.  Coming  up  to  town  on 
his  way  he  fell  and  broke  his  leg. 
When  he  was  asked  whether  tiiat 
accident  was  for  the  best,  he  unhesi- 
tatingly relied '  Certainly.'  Which 
turned  out  to  be  the  case,  for  he  was 
detained  on  the  road,  and  while  he 
was  detained  Queen  Mary  died.  His 
broken  leg  saved  him  from  the  stake. 
My  fiiend  was  not  arguing  the  mat- 
ter on  theological  grounds,  for  I  am 
afraid  he  clings  to  the  dreary  nega- 
tions of  positivism,  or  his  notion 
might  have  required  a  different  line 
of  discussion.  He  was  discussing 
the  matter  on  the  principles  of  tbo 
broadest  philosophy,  and  according 
to  this  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
his  breaking  his  leg  if  he  thou^t 
that  a  desirable  oonsummation.    He 


would,  I  think,  regret  such  a  step 
as  a  very  serious  mistake  in  life. 
So  far  from  the  optimist  theory 
being  true,  there  is  nothing  of  which 
human  life  produces  a  more  plen- 
tiful crop  than  mistakes.  I  remem- 
ber that  Sir  James  Qraham  refused 
to  join  a  vote  of  censure  ona  minis- 
try that  was  thought  to  have  com- 
mitted a  peat  mistake,  because  he 
was  ocmscious,  he  said,  that  he  had 
made  so  many  mistakes  himself. 
That  is  the  most  brilliant  man,  not 
who  makes  the  most  brilliant  hits, 
but  who  makes  the  fewest  mistakes. 
This  is,  I  believe,  an  axiom  with  all 
military  writers.  Some  of  Napo- 
lecm's  finest  fighting  was  a  mistake, 
and  I  believe  it  can  be  proved  to 
demonstration  that  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  nuMle  several  eonspi- 
onous  blunders  on  the  field  of  Water- 
loo. He  won,  not  because  he  made 
no  blunders,  but  beoanse  Napoleon 
made  more. 

Lord  Derby  once  got  himself  into 
ill  odour  by  repeating  the  c^cal 
French  saying  that  a  certain  line  of 
oonduot  was  worse  than  a  sin,  for  it 
was  a  mistake.  This  is  not  a  real 
antithesis,  because,  both  etymdo- 
gically  and  in  substance,  the  two 
W(»ds  are  synonymous.  The  old 
Greeks  took  sin,  or  what  they  re- 
garded as  such,  to  be  a  blunder  and 
amistake.  We  see  this  often  enough 
in  common  experienca  I  never  see 
a  case  of  dshbevate  jilting— when 
an  honest  man  is  thrown  overboard 
by  a  heartless  fiirt»  or  an  honest  girl 
is  jilted  by  some  ]|ght-oMov»— but 
I  know  that  there  is  an  unpleasant 
kind  of  Nemesis  hovering  in  the  air. 
There  were  few  more  impressive 
speeches  than  that  in  whidi  the  late 
Lord  Cranworth  sentenced  Rush,  the 
Jermy-hall  murderer,  to  be  hung, 
and  told  him  that  if  he  had  kept  his 
promise  of  marrying  the  principal 
witness  against  him,  the  policy  of 
the  law  would  have  sealed  her  lips, 
and  in  all  probability  he  would  have 
been  acquitted.  There  is  no  doubt 
but  the  wretched  man  felt  that  he 
had  made  a  very  material  mistake 
in  life.  • 

But  we  are  not  concerned  with 
matters  so  melodramatic  as  this. 
When  men  come  to  a  certain  age 
they  begin  to  analyse  emotkms,  to 


The  PiecaXUp  Papm. 


87 


critioise  past  transactioiis,  ami  be- 
come deeply  meditative  on  the  past 
Tbej  will  sometimos  make  yoa 
dzeamy  half  oonfidences,  and  tell 
yoa  that  there  was  a  time  when  at 
a  certain  point  the  path  of  life  be- 
came biforoated,  aal  they  turned 
to  the  left  hand  when  they  ongbt  to 
have  tamed  to  the  right  That  was 
their  fatal  error.  Everything  would 
have  gone  well  with  them  if  they 
had  not  made  a  particular  mistak». 
Now  I  believe  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  oonfosion  of  thought  on  tbis  sub- 
ject Men  confound  what  is  aod- 
dental  with  what  is  essential  They 
think  that  a  particular  act  was 
isolated  and  accidental,  whereas,  as 
a  matter  of  fiekot,  it  is  simply  part  of 
an  orderly  sequence  of  events.  It 
is  the  legitimate  consequent  of  ante- 
cedents—it is  the  logical  outcc»ne  of 
a  certain  tone  and  c^tfacter.  A  man 
is  killed  while  huntiDg  or  drowned 
while  bathing.  It  is  often  called  an 
aoddent,  while  it  is  (rften  nothing  of 
the  kind.  The  horse  did  not  suit 
him,  the  style  of  country  did  not 
euit  Mm,  hunting  had  altogether 
ceased  to  suit  hioL  Or  the  man 
bathed  too  fax  firon  land  ex  amid 
.currents  or  amid  rooks.  And  in 
either  case  the  man  knew  that  he 
was  running  a  kind  of  risk,  but  the 
risk  seemed  remote,  and  the  thought 
I  wiUchanee  it  occurred  to  his  mind. 
And  in  time  he  ran  through  his 
chances  and  got  killed.  So  I  have 
met  some  youths  who  have  only 
missed  some  sublime  academic  dis- 
tinction through  some  slight  mis- 
take of  their  own— or  of  the  eza- 
miners.  Th^  had  read  all  their 
books  most  carefully  ezoept  some 
particular  author,  and  on  that  author 
they  were  wrecked.  The  real  fact 
is  that  our  scholar  was  an  inaccu- 
rate and  desultory  reader,  and  this 
led  to  a  fall  in  his  class.  Another 
man  might  have  got  a  good  thing  if 
he  had  only  applied  in  time,  but 
another '  had  stepped  in  before  hioL' 
In  point  of  fiEUJt  the  man  was  un- 
punctual  and  unbusinesslike;  he 
had  not  suffered  much  from  such 
bad  habits  before,  but  all  at  once  they 
had  'eventuated*  in  such  a  catas- 
trophe. Another  man  makes  a  mar- 
riage which  turns  out  to  be  unwise 
or  unhappy;  but  the  fellow  had 


been  loafing  about  for  years,  not 
caring  to  whom  he  made  love  so 
that  he  carried  on  that  exciting  pas- 
time. And  then  he  met  some  <me 
who  at  least  had  the  tact  to  play 
the  game  a  stroke  more  skilfully 
than  himsrif,  and  so  he  got  mated 
and  checkmated  at  the  same 
time. 

In  most  instances  we  see  that 
there  has  been  aconf usion  of  thought 
The  mistake  is,  in  fact,  the  sum  of  a 
series  of  mistakes— the  last  factor  in 
a  long  line  of  figures.  It  is  not  an 
isolated  blunder,  but  the  reapmg 
of  a  sowing.  Sometimes  there  is 
something  very  touching  in  the  con- 
feesions  which  (me  hears  from  those 
who  would  desire  to  tell  their  sto- 
ries, or  perhaps  in  those  confessions 
which  a  man  makes  to  himsolf. 
When  a  man  has  invested  all  his 
money  in,  Oveiend  and  Qumey  one 
hardly  likes  to  enter  into  an  elabo- 
rate argument  to  prove  that  this 
was  not  an  isolated  blunder,  but  the 
natural  result  of  a  wroi^  twist  of 
mind^tiiis  desire  for  a  high  return 
of  money,  this  thirsting  for  the  iMo- 
fits  of  the  trader,  this  unpatriotic 
contempt  for  the  safe  and  solid 
Three  per  Cents.  Sometimes^  how- 
ever, there  is  the  comfortable  office 
of  explainii^  to  a  troubled  mind 
that  the  misteke  is  not  a  great  <me 
after  all  lamattingindimeollege 
rooms,  where  luxury  and  art  ;have 
been  grafted  on  the  noble  limary, 
where  the  painted  oriel  and  the 
vase,  bronses,  and  gems  minister  to 
an  aesthetic  sense.  My  companion 
pale  and  thin,  now  a  little  old  and 
worn.  He  tells  me  that  he  is  a  dis- 
appomted  man,  that  he  made  a  grsat 
mistake  in  life.  He  laid  a  wide  and 
deep  foundation,  but  he  has  reared 
no  superstructure.  He  meant— as 
other  men  have  meant  and  carried 
out  theur  meaning— to  have  done 
supremely  well  at  Oxford,  and  so  to 
have  climbed  on  to  statesmanship  or 
the  bar;  but  he  became  so  gocxl  a 
scholar  as  to  be  good  for  nothing 
else  besides.  Law  did  not  come 
easy  to  him, oratory  was  impossible: 
so  he  threw  up  the  experiment  and 
came  back  to  Oxford  to  take  pupils, 
to  fulfil  the  humble  offices  of  the 
college  dons,  to  edit  editions  of  one 
of  the  fathers.    There  is  no  fsune 


88 


A  Bmek  of  Withered  VioleU. 


for  him,  and  as  he  is  a  layman,  no 
wife  or  child  or  pleasant  rural  home. 
I  deny  that  my  friend  has  made  a 
mistake.  We  have  need  of  men 
snch  as  he  is  who  in  gentle  culture, 
refinement,  and  inteUigenoe  should 
be  in  the  Tan  of  society.  They, 
eren  more  than  our  nobles,  accord- 
ing to  Burke's  image,  fonn  the  trae 
Corinthian  capital  of  the  pillar  of 
the  stata  Then  again  I  find  a  man 
who  is  immersed  in  business.  The 
claims  of  his  work  upon  him  are  so 
enormous  that  he  cannot  take  re- 
pose, or  even  if  he  takes  repose  he 
cannot  do  so  with  a  glad,  full  heart, 
but  strictly  subordinates  his  leisure 
to  his  work,  as  we  wrap  precious 
things  in  wool  and  linings.  He, 
too,  is  troubled  with  some  Tague, 
remorseful  notions  that  he  has  made 
mistakes  in  life.  He  had  no  business 
to  enter  on  a  life  that  gires  him  no 
leisure.  I  tell  him  that  our  business 
in  this  world  is  to  be  busy;  that  his 
activity  is  of  more  use  to  others 
and  to  himself  than  his  leisure 
would  be,  and  there  will  be  rest  in 
due  time.  Perhaps  he  will  tell  me 
— I  haye  heard  such  thinfips  said — 
that  he  ought  to  haye  married  a  girl 
with  money,  and  then  he  might  rest 
without  haying  to  work  so  hard  for 
his  iamily.  I  would  hardly  yenture 
in  formal  tenns  to  combat  snch  an 
unmanly  argument  Suppose  all 
men  should  wish  to  marry  girls  with 
money:  here  is  an  argumenium  ad 
aheurdum  to  begin  with.  I  am  im- 
patient witli  men  who  are  impatient 
of  work.  The  cleyerest  and  weal- 
thiest and  most  illustrious  of  Eng- 
lishmen are  amongst  the  hardest 
workers.    You  tell  me,  my  small- 


minded  friend  Jones,  that  yon  are 
harassed,  and  oyerworked,  and  too 
anxious,  and  haye  a  multiplicity  of 
botherations  and  cares,  and  that  all 
this  has  come  upon  you  because  at 
a  critical  time  yon  made  a  mistake 
in  lifew  It  is  the  proper  state  of  life 
that  snch  a  state  of  things  should 
be,  and  that  which  has  brought  it 
about  cannot  be  a  mistako. 

I  know  that  my  philosophy  will 
seem  shallow  enough  to  those  who 
know  that  they  haye  made  mistakes 
that  axe  not  susceptible  of  such  light 
healings,  or  perhaps  of  any  healings. 
Yet  eyen  the  mistake  that  has 
eyoked  the  clear  yision  of  remorse  or 
the  sincere  tear  of  repentance  is  not 
unsusceptible  of  alleyiating  consi- 
derations. I  haye  beard  it  said  that 
a  man  cannot  be  a  great  author  till 
he  has  had  a  great  sorrow;  which 
is  true  so  to  as  it  embodies  the 
truth,  that  the  great  mistske  which 
leads  to  great  sorrow  also  yields 
fruit  that  may  counterbalance  the 
original  fimlt.  As  Schubert,  the 
great  musician,  said,  in  sorrow 
there  is  something  that  fructifies  the 
intellect  and  purifies  the  mind,  while 
joy  deadens  mtellect  and  heart;  as 
our  own  Tennyson  says,  the  soul, 
as  a  weapon,  must  be  foi^ged  through 
baths  of  hissing  tears  for  shape  and 
use;  as  the  large-hearied  and  glo- 
rious poetess,  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  said  in  her  allegorical 
poem  of  tibe  god  Fan—  , 

*  Tet  balf  A  bcjut  te  the  great  god  Fttn, 

A  beut  M  he  sits  by  the  riTer» 
Haldng  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 
The  true  gods  weep  for  the  grief  and  the  paln^ 
For  the  reed  that  grows  noTcr  won  agsln 

As  a  reed  by  the  reeds  of  the  riTer.' 


A  BUNCH  OP  WITHEBED  VIOLETS. 

COLOUBLESS,  tumbled,  and  iiEided, 
Scentless  and  dead. 
Withered  stalks  and  old  thread. 
But  I'd  giye  my  life  could  I  lie  where  they  did* 

Found  as  I  looked  for  some  trifle 

In  some  odd  place — 

Bushed  the  blood  to  my  face. 
And  a  cry  to  my  lips  that  1  scarce  could  stifle* 


A  £ttiie&  of  Withered  Vw'eU.  89 

Last  week  I  thongbt  it  was  endedj 

Over  and  done ; 

That  I'd  conqaered  and  won ; 
Now  they've  opened  the  woaad,  and  it  can't  ba  mended. 

Ck>olI  J  and  calmly  I'd  reckoned 

Thinking  for  hoars ; 

And  a  banch  of  old  flowers 
Sent  my  coolness  and  calmness  adrift  in  a  second. 

Back  it  all  came  madly  rnshing — 

Ball-room  and  ball. 

And  the  seat  in  the  hall 
Where  I  asked,  and  she  gave^  half  averted  and  bloshlng. 

Sitting  apart  through  the  Lancers, 

Somehow  I  dared — 

And  she  gave  them,  half  scared. 
And  looked  round,  and  then  oat  came  the  rest  of  the  dancers. 

Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken. 

Only  she  gave ; 

And  I  went  home  her  slave, 
Tet  proud  as  a  king,  with  my  sacred  token« 

She  had  worn  them,  I  know,  from  eleyen — 

Worn  them  till  three, 

When  she  gave  them  to  me; 
And  I  think  they  had  been  for  four  hours  in  heayen. 

Oan  you  guess  where  it  was  that  she  wore  them 

Nestled  away? 

Why  it  is  that  I  say 
I  could  kneel  down  this  minute  and  worship  before  thorn  ? 

Can  you  guess  why  some  dry  leaves  and  cotton 

Thrill  through  my  heart? 

Why  my  pulse  gave  that  start,' 
When  I  found  those  dead  blossoms,  a  while  forgotten? 

They  lay  close  to  some  beads  that  kept  falling 

Only  to  rise 

'  With  her  laugh  and  her  sighs.' 
Can  you  guess  why  the  memory  still  is  enthralling  ? 

Tennyson's  fair '  Miller  s  Daughter  '-- 

Bead  it  and  learn 

Why  my  cheeks  throb  and  bum. 
Did  she  think,  as  she  gave,  of  that  soag  I  had  taught  her? 

Yet  she  was  wrong  in  her  kindness ; 

I  wrong  to  take ; 

But  she  gave  for  my  sake. 
And  I  asked,  though  I  knew  it  was  madness  and  bllniness. 

Blindness,  because  on  the  morrow 

AUmust  beo*er; 

There  could  never  be  more  ; 
And  though  she  would  forget,  I  could  only  reap  sorrow. 

Here  are  the  flowers  all  faded. 

Scentless  and  dead, 

Withered  stalks  and  old  thread ; 
But  rd  give  my  life  could  I  lie  where  they  did.  B. 


90 


VERY  OLD  PEOPLE. 


A  CORRESPONDENCE  of  a  sin- 
galar  kind  is  going  cm  in  the 
public  joornals^  on  a  Bubject  ^hich 
yraa  originally  started  by  the  late 
8ir  George  Lewis,  the  eminent  states- 
man and  acute  thinker— is  there  any 
person  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ddf  The  Tery  statement  of  such 
a  qnestian  seems  absurd ;  for  we  are 
no  more  in  the  habit  of  doubting 
this  fact  than  that  Daniel  Lambert 
was  very  fai,  or  General  Tom 
Thumb  Tery  short  And  yet  this 
was  the  question  which  Sir  George 
propounded.  He  expressed  a  doubt 
whether  there  is  any  thoroughly  con- 
clusive evidence — evidence  which 
would  satisfy  both  a  logician  and 
a  lawyer— of  a  person  having  over- 
lived one  hundred  years.  He  de- 
clared that,  in  every  case  he  had 
examined,  tiiere  was  some  loophole 
or  other,  some  point  1^  insuffi- 
ciently verified.  When  this  matter 
was  started  in  '  Notes  and  Queries,' 
it  brought  forward  a  multitude  of 
rejoinders;  and  when,  at  different 
periods  since,  it  has  occupied  atten- 
tion in  the  '  Times/  the  challenge 
has  been  accepted  by  a  still  larger 
number  of  eager  combatants. 
Country  clergymen,  especially,  and 
others  acquainted  with  the  litera- 
ture of  tombstones  and  parish  regis- 
ters, have  been  very  earnest  in  their 
assertion  that  centenarianism  is  a 
fact  which  ought  not  for  an  instant 
to  be  doubted. 

Let  us  notice,  first,  some  of  the 
alleged  fiicts ;  and  then,  the  reasons 
which  have; suggested  incredulity 
on  the  subject.  A  book  was  pub- 
lished about  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  containing  notices  of 
more  than  seventeen  hundred  persons 
reputed  to  have  lived  to  the  age  of  a 
hundred  or  upwards;  but  the  author 
or  compiler  was  so  ready  to  swallow 
anything  marvellous,  so  indisposed 
to  cautious  inquiry,  that  we  will 
dismiss  him  altogether.  We  will 
gather  a  few  instances  from  chron- 
icles, obitaaries,  and  registers  of 
various  kinds,  sufficient  to  show 
the  general  nature  of  the  belief  on 
this  subject  Let  us  leave  untouched 
the  deoide  between  loo  and  no 
years  old;  seeing  that  Sir  George 


Lewis  admitted  before  he  died  that 
even  he  had  been  convinced  by  some 
of  the  instances  adduced:  that  is, 
he  could  detect  no  flaw  in  the  evi- 
dence that  a  few  persons  had  lived 
to  an  age  between  loo  and  no.  We 
will  start  from  the  last-named  date« 
and  so  travel  onwazds. 

Popular  statements  aangnthe  age 
of  no  to  John  Locke,  who  was 
baptized  in  171 6  when  three  years 
old,  and  buried  atLarling,  in  Nor- 
folk, in  1S23 ;  to  an  old  woman  at 
Enniskilien,  who  was  bom  in  i754f 
and  was  alive  in  1864;  to  Philip 
Luke,  who  had  been  cabin  boy 
under  Lord  Anson  so  fiur  back  as 
the  time  of  George  I.,  and  was 
living  at  Lame  in  Ireland  in  1836 : 
and  to  Mary  Balphson,  who  followed 
her  soldier-husband  to  the  wars  in 
the  time  of  George  II.,  fooght  by  his 
side  m  the  uniform  of  a  wounded 
dn^oon  who  had  fidlen  dose  to  her, 
and  died  in  1808  at  Liverpool. 
Then  there  was  Betfy  Boberts,  who 
was  bom  at  Northop  in  Flintshire 
in  1749,  and  was  living  at  Liverpool 
in  1859  with  a  brisk  young  fellow 
of  80  as  her  son.  The  age  of  in 
has  been  claimed  for  John  Oiaig, 
who  fought  at  Sheriffinuir  in  i7i5» 
and  died  at  Kilmarnock  in  1793; 
and  for  the  Bev.  Biohard  Lufkin, 
who  died  at  Ufford  in  Suffolk  in 
1678,  and  who  preached  a  sermon 
the  very  Sunday  before  his  death. 
Concerning  the  age  of  na,  there 
was  Toney  Procter,  who  was  negro 
servant  to  an  English  officer  at 
Quebec  so  fiir  back  as  i759>  and 
yet  lived  to  see  the  year  1855 ;  and 
there  was  Isabel  Walker,  who  died 
in  1774,  and  whose  engraved  por- 
trait is  in  the  Museum  of  the  Anti- 
quarian Society  at  Perth.  But  a 
more  curious  instance  was  that 
which  was  connected  with  a  con- 
vivial meeting  held  at  a  tavern  in 
the  metropolis  in  1788,  to  celebrate 
the  centenary  of  the  revolution  of 
1688 ;  an  old  man  said  he  was  iia 
years  old,  and  remembered  the  revo- 
lution as  having  occurred  when  he 
was  a  lad:  of  course  his  convives 
chaired  him  in  triumph.  The  age 
of  n  3  is  claimed  for  Michael  Boyne, 
who  died  at  Armagh  in  1776;  Mrs. 


Very  OU  People. 


91 


GiUam^  who  died  in  Aldorsgaie 
Skeet  in  1761:  •  man  in  whose 
memocy  a  tomfaatone  vaa  pat  np 
in  Bocbe  Abbey  Oboroh  in  1734, 
and  whose  son  lived  to  be  109 ;  and 
the  Bey.  Patrick  Machell  YiTiaa, 
Ticar  of  Leabnry,  near  Akiwiok, 
who  was  born  in  1546,  and  wrote 
«  letter  in  1657  (when  11 1  years 
old),  in  which  he  said, '  I  was  nerer 
of  a  &t,  bat  a  slender  mean  habit  of 
body.'  Two  other  instances  are, 
William  Garter,  who  had  been  a 
sergeant  in  the  army,  and  who  died 
in  1768 ;  and  Patrick  Grant,  a  yete- 
ran  of  the  Battle  of  GollodeD,  who 
sorfiyed  till  1834.  If  we  want  eyi- 
dence  of  Hie  age  of  114,  we  aie  re- 
liurred  to  a  tombstone  in  Mooross 
Abbey,  Eillarn^,  which  bears  the 
epitaph— 'Erected  by  Daniel  Shine, 
in  meBK>ry  of  his  &ther,  Owen  Shine, 
who  departed  this  liie  April  6th, 
1847,  aged  114  years.  Pray  lor 
him.' 

We  now  go  ontoanother  groapof 
five  years.  What  say  the  advocates 
of  115?  Nothing  that  we  need 
dwell  npon  heie;  bat  among  those 
for  whom  have  been  claimed  the 
age  of  116  yean,  we  find  Bobert 
Pooles,  who  died  at  Tyross,  in  Ar- 
magh, in  174a;  John  Iiyon,  whose 
death  took  place  at  Bandon  in  1761 ; 
and  Mrs.  MJaiy  Power,  aont  of  the 
late  Bight  Hon.  Bichaid  Lalor  Sbeil. 
David  Kerriaon,  a  soldier  of  the 
Ammcan  BerofaitioB,  died  at  Al« 
bany  in  185a  at  the  age  of  117 ; 
which  was  also  the  age  claimed 
for  Donald  M'Gregor,  a  Skye  fiurmer 
in  the  last  oeirtary.  Mr.  John 
Biva,  a  stockbroker,  died  in  1771 
at  the  age  of  xi8,  having  been  ac- 
customed to  walk  tooffice  till  within 
a  few  days  of  his  death;  and  if  the 
parish  Mgister  of  Irthingtcm,  in 
Korthomberland,  is  to  be  relied 
npon,  of  similar  age  was  Bobert 
Bowman,  when  he  died  in  1829. 
In  a  hoi^ital  at  Moscow,  there  was 
an  <dd  man,  who  was  wont  to  say 
that  he  enlisted  in  the  Bossian  army 
in  the  time  of  Peter  the  Great;  if 
so,  he  coald  hardly  have  been  less 
than  119  at  the  time  when  an 
English  traveller  visited  him  a  few 
years  ago.  Mr.  Sn^d,  in  1833,  saw 
a  gaunt,  large-limbed,  exceedingly 
wnnkled  old  woman  at  Lansldbourg, 


in  Savoy,  who  said  she  was  bom  in 
1714^  And  remembered  events  that 
took  place  in  1721. 

Of  course  when  we  come  to  ages 
between  120  and  130,  we  must  not 
expect  the  instances  to  be  very  nu- 
meroos;  but  let  us  jot  down  a  few 
from  various  aathorities.  The  age 
of  lao  has  been  claimed  for  Ursula 
Chicken  (what  a  chicken  I),  who 
diedat Holdemessin  1722 ;  William 
Jugall,  a  feithfdl  old  servant  of  the 
Wetister  ftmilv,  at  Battle  Abbey,  in 
Sussex,  who  died  in  1798,  and  to 
whom  a  monument  was  erected  in 
Battle  churchyard ;  Mr.  Charles  Cot- 
trell,  who  died  at  Philadelphia  in 
1761,  leaving  a  wife  (aged  115),  to 
whom  he  had  been  married  ninefy- 
eight  years;  and  a  Duchess  of  Bnc- 
clengh,  who  (according  to  a  volume 
published  by  the  Bev.  John  Dun,  of 
Aachinle^)  had '  lived  twenty  years 
a  maiden,  fifty  years  a  wife,  and  fifty 
yean  a  widow/  and  died  in  17^8. 
'Blackwood's  Magazine'  spoke  in 
182X  of  a  Mr.  Charles  Leyne^  who 
had  just  then  died  at  the  age  of 
I ai  in  the  United  States,  having 
lived  there  under  four  British  sove- 
reigns before  the  rupture  in  1774: 
he  left  a  widow  no  years  old.  A 
hoaiy-headed  neno,  who  was  one  of 
the  lions  of  New  York  at  the  time  of 
the  International  Exhibition  of  1853 
in  that  city,  was  said  to  be  124  years 
old;  but  we  do  not  know  whether 
this  was  one  of  Mr.  Bamum's  won- 
deiB.  The  Bodleian  Library  contains 
a  news-letter  of  June  i,  i724>  in 
which  is  a  pangiaph  to  the  effiact, 
that,  as  the  courtiers  weie  going  to 
St  James's  to  be  presented  to  George 
I.,  they  were  attracted  by  a  venc- 
rabla  woman,  who  stated  herself  to 
be  124  years  old;  she  had  kept  a 
shop  at  Kendal  during  the  Civil 
Ware  in  the  days  of  Charles  L, 
and  was  the  mother  of  nine  ddl- 
dren  at  the  time  when  the  unfortu- 
nate m(maroh  was  executed  (1649). 
An  epitaph  in  All  Saints'  Church, 
Northampton,  celebrates  the  name 
of  a  person  who  died  in  1 706  at  the 
a^  of  126.  A  'History  of  Vir- 
ginia,' which  gives  a  tough  list  of 
very  aged  persons  in  that  state,  in- 
cludes the  name  of  Wonder  Booker, 
a  slave  who  received  the  first  of 
these  two  names  because  he  wob  a 


98 


Very  Old  People. 


wonder;  he  worked  m  his  master^B 
garden  till  117  jean  old,  and  died 
in  1 8 19  at  the  age  of  ia6,  haying 
been  born  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Owen  Tndor,  who 
boasted  of  being  descended  from 
Henry  VIL,  died  at  Llangollen, 
1 77 1,  at  the  i^e  of  127.  This 
was  also  recorded  as  the  age  of 
John  Newell,  who  died  at  Michaels- 
town  in  1 761 ;  he  claimed  to  be  the 
grandson  of  the  celebrated  old  Parr 
(of  whom  we  shall  speak  presently). 
The  '  Gentleman's  Ma^izine '  in 
177a  recorded  the  death  of  Mr. 
Abraham  Strodtman,  at  the  age 
of  128.  London  claimed  to  have 
an  inhabitant  of  the  same  age  in 
1724,  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Jane 
Skrimshaw. 

Another  decade,  embracing  ages 
between  1 30  and  740,  is  not  with- 
out its  records  in  the  pages  of  county 
histories  and  antiquarian  publica- 
tions.    William  Beatty,  a  soldier 
who  had  fought  at  the  Battle  of  the 
Boyne  in  1690,  died  in  1774  at  the 
age  of  130.    Peter  Garden  figures 
in  an  engraving  contained  in  the 
Perth  Museum  as  haying  died  in 
1775  ftt  the  age  of  131.    Meb.  Keith, 
who  died  at  Newnham  in  1772  at 
the  age  of  133,  left  behind  her  three 
daughters,  one  of  whom  was  a  fiiir 
damsel  of  109.    Louis  Mntel,  a  free 
negro  in  St  Lncia,  was  reputed  to 
be  135  years  old  when  he  died  in 
1851 :  althongh  he  married  so  late 
in  life  as  55,  ne  survived  that  event 
eighty  years.    'Silliman's  Journal' 
mentions  one  Henry  Francisco  in  a 
more  circumstantial  manner  than  is 
usual  in  this  class  of  records.    He 
was  born  in  1686,  left  France  in 
1 69 1,  witnessed  the  coronation  of 
Queen  Anne  in  1702,  fought  under 
Marlborough,  then  went  to  America, 
was  wounded  and  taken  prisoner 
during  the  American  war,  and  was 
living  near  Albany  in  1822,  at  the 
age  of  136.    The  venerable  age  of 
138    is  put   down   for   one   Joan 
M  DoQsgh,  who  died  at  Ennis,  in 
Ireland,  in  1768. 

We  may  well  suppose  that  lives 
of  seven  score  must  be  few  and  far 
between,  even  when  credulity  comes 
to  our  aid.  A  parish  register  at 
Everton,  Bedfordshire,  mentions  the 
Bev.  Thomas  fiudyard,  vicar  of  that 


parish,  as  having  died  at  the  age  of 
140  during  the  reign  of  Charles  IL 
A  negro,  named  Easter,  is  set  down 
as  having  attained  a  like  age  in  1854. 
But  themoet  fisimousinstance  was  that 
of  the  Ck>unte8Sof  Desmond—- a  sub- 
ject of  much  and  eager  controversy. 
Whether  such  a  person  ever  lived  at 
all,  and  whether,  if  she  lived,  there 
is  any  really  trustworthy  evidence 
of  her  age,  are  questions  which  have 
been  treated  at  full  in  no  less  im- 
p^nt  a  work  than  the  'Quarterly 
Review.'  The  popular  account,  at 
all  events,  in,  that  she  was  bom  iD 
the  second  half  c^  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury;  that  she  married  the  Earl  of 
Desmond  in  Edward  IV.'s  time; 
that  she  had  three  complete  den- 
titions or  sets  of  natural  teeth  during 
her  long  career;  that  she  appeared 
at  the  court  of  James  L  in  1614; 
and  that  she  was  wont  to  go  to 
market  on  foot  almost  down  to  the 
day  of  her  death  at  the  age  of  140. 

But  we  have  now  to  speak  of 
venerable  persons  who  are  claimed 
to  have  exceeded  the  longevity  even 
of  the  tough  old  Countess.    A  slab 
on  the  floor  of  Abbey  Dore  Church, 
Herefordshire,  records  the  death  of 
Elizabeth  Lewis,  in  171 5>  ftt  the  age 
of  141 ;  and  the  parish  register  of 
Frodsham,  in  Cheshire,  contains  the 
name  of  Thomas  Hough,  who,  if  the 
Boman  numerals  are  correct  (oxli), 
died  at  the  same   aga    During  ft 
celebrated  honddic  contest  in  1385, 
between  Lord  Scrope  and  Sir  £U>- 
bert  Grosvenor,  it  became  important 
to  obtain  the  oldest  available  living 
testimony  concerning  the  holding  of 
certain   titles  and  insignia;    and 
among  the  witnesses  brought  for- 
ward were  Sir  John  Sully,  aged  105,. 
and  especially  John  Thirlwall,  an 
esquire  of  Northumberland,   aged 
145.    Whether  the  judges  had  any 
doubt  of  the  correctness  of  this 
alleged  age  we  are  not  told.    There 
are,  considering  the  circumstances,, 
remarkably  full  details  conceming^ 
another  veteran  of  1 45,  named  Chris- 
tian Jacobson   Drachenberg.     He 
was  bom  in  Sweden  in  1626,  lived 
chiefly  as  a  sailor  till  1694,  and  was 
then  made  a  captive  by  Barbary 
corsairs.    Being  kept  as  a  slave  till 
1 710  he  made  his  escape,  and  served 
again  as  a  seaman  till  17 17,  when 


7ery  Old  PecpU. 


98 


be  was  91  years  old.  At  the  age  of 
ic6»  beiug  indigDant  at  incredulity 
^xpiessed  concerning  his  age,  he 
walked  a  long  distance  on  porpose 
to  procure  a  certificate  of  tne  year 
of  his  birth.  In  173s  he  waspxe- 
«ented  to  the  King  of  Denmark ;  and 
in  1737  ?is  fnameti — a  brisk  bride- 
groom of  109  to  a  blooming  widow 
of6ol  He  walked  about  in  the 
town  of  Aarhuns  in  1759  at  the  age 
of  133 ;  but  his  ^elidis  hung  down 
fio  completely  over  his  eyes  that  he 
oould  not  see.  Thirteen  more  years 
were  in  store  for  him,  seeing  that 
he  did  not  die  till  1772,  when  he 
had  completed  his  145th  year.  The 
oaae  was  considered  sufficiently  im- 
portant to  deserve  a  place  in  Mr. 
Charles  Knight's  'English  Cyclo- 
psddia/  where  there  is  an  article  on 
'  Dracheoberg/  attributed  to  one  of 
the  most  trustworthy  of  our  literary 
men.  In  Boate  luid  Molyneux's 
*  Natural  History  of  Ireland'  a  notice 
occurs  of  Mr.  £ckelstan,  who  was 
bom  in  1 548,  and  died  at  Philips- 
town  in  1696,  figures  which,  if  cor- 
rect,  denote  an  age  of  148. 

The  number  1 50  is  rather  a  suspi- 
cious one  in  these  matters ;  for,  being 
what  is  called  a  'round'  number, 
persons  are  often  tempted  to  use  it 
without  much  regard  to  strict  accu- 
racy. Francis  Ck>nsit,  who  had  been 
a  burthen  to  the  purlsh  of  Malton 
djuring  great  part  of  his  life,  was 
said  to  be  150  when  he  died  in  1768. 
Lywaroh  HSn  (a  Welshman  appa- 
rently) had  the  same  age  imputed 
to  him;  as  had  likewise  Sir  Balph 
Vernon,  who  was  bom  towards  tne 
end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and 
liyed  nearly  to  the  middle  of  the 
fifteenth.  If  the  perish  register  of 
MinshuU,  in  Cheshire,  which  says 
that  one  Thomas  Damme  lived  to 
'sevenscore  and  fourteen  years,'  is 
correct,  this  looks  very  much  like 
154.  The  most  celebrated  per- 
sonage, however,  who  exceeded  150 
years  was  that  renowned  Old  Parr, 
who  always  seems  to  be  making  and 
taking  'life  pills,'  and  whose  por- 
traits seem  intended  to  show  how 
vigorous  and  venerable  we  shall  all 
become  if  we  will  only  take  the  pills 
in  question.  The  tetttimony  as  Id 
Thomas  Parr's  age  seems  to  be  tole- 
rably complete.     He  was  bom  in 


Shropshire  in  1483,  remained  a 
bachelor  till  80  years  old,  married 
in  1563,  lived  with  this  first  wife 
thirty-two  years,  became  a  widower 
in  1595,  married  again  in  1603 
when  he  was  120  years  old,  and 
lived  to  see  the  year  1635.  ^^^  that 
year  the  Earl  of  Arundel  visited 
him,  and  was  so  strack  by  his  ap- 
pearance as  to  invite  him  to  come 
to  his  town  mansion.  The  old  man 
found  this  lionizing  too  much  for 
him;  he  was  brought  by  very  easy 
stages  in  a  litter  to  London,  vrith 
an  'antique-faced  merry-andrew'  to 
keep  him  cheerful  on  ib.e  way;  but 
the  &tigue,  the  crowds  of  visitors 
who  came  to  see  him,  and  the  lux- 
uries which  were  preased  upon  him 
in  London,  carried  him  off  at  the 
wonderful  age  of  15  a.  He  was 
buried  on  November  15th,  1635,  at 
Westminster  Abbey,  where  a  monu- 
ment was  erected  to  his  memory. 
When  presented  on  one  occasion  to 
Charles  I.,  the  monarch  said  to  him, 
'  You  have  lived  longer  than  other 
men;  what  have  you  done  more 
than  other  men?*  To  which  Parr 
replied, '  I  did  penance  when  I  was 
a  hundred  years  old.'  The  trath 
even  went  beyond  this  statement; 
for  he  was  ffuilty  of  a  peccadillo 
when  a  hundred  and  five  years  of 
age,  and  did  penance  in  a  white 
sheet  at  the  door  of  the  parish 
church  of  Atterbury,  his  native  vil- 
lage 

Shall  we  go  beyond  eight  score? 
Let  us  see.  There  was  one  John 
Hovin,  who  died  in  1741  at  the 
alleged  age  of  172,  and  who  left  a 
widow  destined  to  live  till  her  164th 
year.  There  was  Tairville,  who,  if 
Martin's '  Description  of  the  Western 
Isles'  is  to  be  relied  on,  died  in  the 
Shetland  Isles  at  the  age  of  180. 
There  was  Peter  Torton,  who  gained 
renown  in  1724  as  having  survived 
till  18  5  ;  and  there  was  Jane  Britton, 
who,  as  we  are  informed  by  the 
parish  register  of  Evercrick,  in 
Somerset,  for  1588,  'was  a  maiden, 
as  she  aflSirmed ,  of  aoo  years.'  Leav- 
ing this  blushing  maiden  and  her 
compeers,  we  may  observe  that  the 
only  well-authenticated  case  (if  it  is 
authenticated)  of  eight  score  and 
upwards  was  that  of  Henry  Jenkins. 
He   was  born  in   the  year  1501. 


94 


Fery  OU  Feofle. 


AfVhen  a  boy  he  carried  a  horse-load 
of  arzowfl  to  Northallerton  to  be 
employed  by  the  English  army  in 
resisting  the  inyasion  by  James  IV. 
of  Scotland ;  and  he  lived  to  see  the 
year  1670,  when  he  died  at  Ellerton- 
apon-Swale^  in  Yorkshire,  at  the 
age  of  169. 

Now  what  axe  we  to  think  of  all 
these  alleged  cases  of  extreme  old 
age  ?  The  grounds  on  which  scep- 
ticism has  been  expressed  concern* 
ing  them  axe  numerous.  It  has 
b^  pointed  out  that  most  of  the 
instances  are  among  the  humbler 
classes  of  Scotch,  Irish,  and  negroes, 
where  registers  and  formal  entries 
are  but  little  attended  to.  The 
mkldle  and  uppor  classes,  ameng 
whom  authentic  records  are  more 
plentiful,  take  but  a  .small  part  in 
the  marrels  of  hmgeyity.  'Oan 
actuaries,'  it  is  asked, '  refer  us  to  a 
single  instance  of  an  assured  person 
liying  to  a  hundred  and  forty, 
thirty,  twenty,  ten,  ay,  to  one  hun* 
dxed  and  ten  ?'  The  legal  evidence 
is  abnost  always  deMent  If  an 
entry  of  birth  or  baptism  is  found 
in  a  family  Bible,  there  is  no  proof 
that  it  was  written  at  the  time  of 
the  event,  or  that  the  dates  were 
correctly  set  down.  In  one  case  a 
clergyman,  investigating  an  alleged 
instance  of  centenarianism,  found 
that  the  Bible  which  ccmtained  the 
entry  was  only  sixty  years  old,  and 
that  no  other  testimony  wu  forth- 
coming. B^;iBterB  of  birth  were 
not  fonnally  and  legally  established 
till  after  the  year  1830;  all  such 
registers  before  that  dato  were  volun- 
tuy  and  therefore  uncertain.  Sven 
parish  registers  are  not  always  re- 
liable, for  many  of  them,  giving  the 
year  of  death,  mention  tne  age  of 
the  deceased  but  do  not  name  the 
year  of  birth,  so  that  there  are  not 
two  dates  to  correct  each  other. 
Sometimes  tombstonesarere-chiseled 
to  restore  the  half-decayed  epitaphs* 
and  then  the  village  mason^  puzzled 
at  some  of  the  partially-obliterated 
figures,  makes  a  guess  at  them,  and 
puts  in  the  date  or  the  age  which 
seems  to  him  nearest  like  the  ori« 
ginal.  There  is  a  tombstone  in 
Conway  churchjard  recording  the 
&ct  that  Lowry  Owens  Yaughan  died 
in  1766  at  the  age  of  19a,  and  tlat 


her  husband,  William  Yaughan,  died 
in  1735  at  the  age  of  72.  Now  a 
recent  observer  of  the  tombstone 
has  remarked  that  the  lady  must  (if 
this  be  true)  have  been  nearly  a 
hundred  years  old  when  William 
Yaugban  married  her;  and  as  the 
figures  on  the  stone  have  a  ratiier 
freshly-cut  appearance,  he  prefers 
the  supposition  that  193  was  an  in- 
correct remitting  of  an  earlier  inci- 
sioD.  The  'Worcester  Chronicle,' 
in  1852,  drew  attention  to  a  tomb^ 
stone  in  Cleve  Prior  churchyard 
which  recorded  the  death  of  a  person 
at  the  startling  age  of  309 ;  this  ia 
supposed  to  have  been  an  ignorant 
mason's  way  of  exnessing  39,  that 
is  30  and  9-na  kind  of  error  not  in- 
frequent among  the  humbler  cianes. 
The  'Times'  noticed  in  1848  that 
the  register  of  Shorediteh  pariah 
contained  an  entry  of  Thomas  Cam, 
who  died  in  T588  at  the  age  of  207, 
having  lived  in  twelve  reipns.  An 
investigator  afterwards  pointed  out 
that  Sir  Henry  EUiis,  in  his  'History 
of  Shorediteh,'  put  down  the  age  at 
107 ;  and  an  examination  of  the  re- 
gister elicited  the  &ct  that '  i '  had 
been  altered  to '  a'  quite  recently  by 
some  mischievouB  person  who  pro- 
bably wished  to  poke  fun  at  the 
antiquaries.  Instances  of  the  Avow- 
ing kind  are  known  to  have  occurred. 
A  young  married  couple  have  a  son 
whom  they  name  John,  and  who 
dies  in  infancy ;  twenty  years  after- 
wards another  son  receives  the  simi- 
lar name  of  John;  and  then,  in 
neighboun'  gossip  eighty  years 
afterwards,  one  John  becomes  con- 
founded with  the  other,  and  a  man 
really  eighty  years  old  figures  in 
popular  repute  as  a  centenarian. 
Some  aged  persons  like  to  be  con- 
sidered older  than  they  are,  on  ac- 
count of  the  celebrity  it  gives  them ; 
and  they  do  not  shrink  from  a  few 
'crammers' to  bring  this  about  The 
Bev.  Mr.  Fletcher,  as  he  was  called, 
who  was  first  a  farmer,  then  a  sol- 
dier, then  employed  in  the  West 
India  Docks,  and  then  a  Methodist 
local  preacher,  used  to  eay  that  he 
was  over  a  hundred  years  old :  he 
drew  great  crowds  to  hear  such  a 

Ehenomenon  preach.    He  probably 
elieved  himself  to  be  as  old  as  he 
said,  and  at  his  death  his  age  was 


The  Lay  rf  &e  Crush  Boom.                             95 

recorded  as  io8 ;  bat  a  subsequent  any  evidence  of  her  age  bejond  her 

investigation   showed  that  he  was  own  assertioD. 

much  less  instead  of  much  more  There  can  be  no  question  that 

than  a  centenaiian.    The  writer  of  this  kind  of  incredulity  renders  ser- 

tbis  paper  knew  of  an  old  woman  vice,  in  so  fur  as  it  induces  more 

many  years  ago  who  obtained  noto-  careful  examination  into  the  testi- 

rietv  for  being  (ia  her  own  words)  mony  for  alleged  facts  of  longevity. 

*  a  hnndert  iJl  but  two/  and  for  Nevertheless  centenarianism  (and  a 

being  able  to  hold  a  sixpence  hori-  few  years  beyond  the  even  hundred) 

zontally  between  her  nose  and  chin ;  rest  on  too  many  and  too  varied 

but  he  doubts  whether  there  was  data  to  be  quite  overthrown. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  CEUSH  BOOM. 

HIE !  Flunkeys  from  Belgravia  I 
Tight  Tigers  from  Pall  Mall  I 
From  far  and  near  you'd  best  appear. 

To  meet  the  coming  swell. 
A  blaze  of  jewell'd  splendour, 

Of  panoply  and  pride, 
All  down  the  crinison  staircaaa 

Queen  Fashion  soon  will  glida 
Fnun  every  side  they  gather. 

From  box  as  well  as  stall. 
Here,  'midst  the  flounced  commotion. 

Persistent  linkmen  bawl ; 
Wigged  coachmen  lash  their  horses ; 

Lean,  powdered  footmen  sfaont 
StraDge  names  along  the  anak  rooov^ 

The  Opera's  coming  oiit 

Sweet  maidens,  fair  as  lliia% 

O'er  the  Aubusson  sweap; 
Beat  upon  teclnation 

To-night,  before  tfa^  sleep ; 

For  omshes  and  for  balls. 
And  treats,  in  everlasting  smU^ 

Against  wax-lighted  wallik 
Awakened  ftom  their  slumbeai. 

Old  gsntlemen  repair 
To  quiet '  rubs,'  in  cosy  doiM^ 

Or  eon^rtable  ohair. 
Young  prigs  caress  monstaahas^ 

Old  toadies  wince  with  gD«t ; 
Kmg  Bore  attends  them  t»  the  dMr, — 

'm  Opera's  coming  ooft  t 

"Ekmd  youth  with  tearful  sgM^ 

Frond  girl  with  lips  that  plif^ 
This  crowd,  which  grows andgMlhera, 

Will  break  and  ebb  awa^: 
And  then  the  words  he  whiigMed, 

And  she  stood  still  to  taHV^ 
Will  keep  her— well^froaaalMping, 

And  make  him  laugh  next  year. 
Goodnight!  and  one  is  tremblmg. 

Good  night!  and  both  in  donM> 
Will  all  be  well  ?   Ah !  who  can  tell  ?— 

The  Opera's  coming  out ! 


96 


27m  Lay  of  the  Crush  Boom. 

See  how  they  mix  t6gether 

In  Ecarcely  elbow  room : 
The  grandson  of  the  Dachess 

With  the  daughter  of  the  groom ! 
Fair  necks  with  jewels  glitter, 

Which  envious  glances  meet; 
Some  furnished  from  Golconda, 

And  some  from  Hanway  Street ! 
Boll  upon  roll,  in  masses 

Of  hair,  are  heads  arrayed, 
Which  Nature  has  presented. 

Or  drawn  on  the  Arcade. 
The  daughters  sigh ;  the  mothers  eye ; 

But  still  the  liokmen  shout, 
*  Qneen  Fashion's  carriage  stops  the  way,' — 

The  Opera's  coming  out ! 


CO. 


IHawii  l#y  tIanceSi4iiftri]'. 


THE    AUi 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


AUGUST,   1869. 


APTBEN00N8  IN  'THE  PABK/ 


THERE  is  a  passage  in  old  Pepys's 
Diary,  written  two  centuries 
and  odd  ago,  which,  thanks  to  the 
pNermanenoo  of  our  English  instita- 
tionff,  would  do  Tery  well  for  the 
present   day :    '  Walked   into  St 

YOL.  XVL^NO.  XOn. 


James's  Park  and  there  found  great 
and  Tery  noble  alterations  .... 
1 66 a,  July  27.  I  went  to  walk  in 
the  Park,  which  is  now  every  day 
more  and  more  pleasant  by  the  new 
works  upon  it^     Such 

H 


98 


AftemoonB  in  '  the  Park: 


langnage  is  justly  dae  to  Mr.  Layaid 
and  tiis  immediate  predecessor  at 
the  Board  of  Works.    Sappoce  that 
I  live  at  Bajswater,  and  my  basiness 
takes  me  down  to  Westminster  eyery 
day,  it  is  certainly  best  for  me  that, 
instead  of  taking  'bus,  or  cab,  or 
underground  railway,  t  should,  like 
honest  Pepys,  saunter  in  the  Park 
and  admire  the  many  'noble  altera- 
tions/   I  venture  to  call  poor  Pepys 
honest  because  he  is  so  truthful; 
but  neyer  thinking  that  his  cipher 
would  be  discovered  he  has  men- 
tioned in  his  Diary  so  many  unprint- 
able things,  that  I  am  afraid  we  must 
use  that  qualifying  phrase  '  indiffe- 
rently honest.'    Several  gentlemen 
who  live  at  Bayswater  and  practise 
at  Westminster  may  find  that  the 
phrase  suits  well,  and  a  man's  moral 
being  may   be   all  the  better,  as 
through    lawns    and    alleys   and 
copses,  where   each  separate  step 
almost  brings  out  a  separate  yignette 
of  beauty,  he  trayerses  in  a  north- 
westerly direction  the  whole  length 
of  our  Parks.    He  turns  aside  into 
St.  James's  Park,  and  then  goes 
through  the  Green  Park  and  crosses 
Piccadilly  to  lounge  through  Hydo 
Park,  and  so  home  through  Ken- 
sington Gardens.    The  alterations 
this  season  in  Hyde  Park  are  Tery 
noticeable.      All  the  Park  spaces 
recently  laid  out  have  been  planned 
in  a  style  of  beauty  in  harmony  with 
what  proyiously  existed  ;  a  beauty, 
I   think,    unapproachable   by   the 
msny  gardens  of  Paris,  or  the  Prado 
of  Madrid,  the  Gorso  of  Rome,  the 
Strado  di   Toledo  of  Naples,  the 
Glacis  of  Vienna.    The  most  strik- 
ing alterations  are  those  of  the  Park 
side  near  the  Brompton  road,  where 
the  low,  bare,  uneven  ground,  as 
if  by  the  magic  touch  of  a  trans- 
formation,   is     become     exquisite 
garden  sfMices  with  soft  undulations, 
set  with  starry  gems  of  the  most 
exquisite  flowers,  bordered  by  fresh- 
est turf.     The  palings  which  the 
mob   threw  down   have  been  all 
nobly  replaced,  and  more  and  more 
restoration  is  promi.^od  by  a  Go- 
yernment  eager  to  be  popular  with 
all  classes.    Most  of  all,  the  mimio 
ocean  of  the  Serpentine  is  to  be  re- 
newed;  and  when  its  bottom  is 
leyelJed,  its  depth  diminished,  and 


the  purify  of  the  water  seoored,  we 
shall  arrive  at  an  almost  ideal  per- 
fection. 

As  we  fake  our  lounge  in  the 
afternoon  it  is  necessary  to  put  on 
quite  a  different  mental  mood  as 
we  pass  from  one  Park  to  another. 
We  pass  at  once  from  turmoil  into 
comparative  repose  as  we  enter  the 
guarded  enclosure  encircled  on  all 
sides  by  a  wilderness  of  brick  and 
mortar.    You  feel  quite  at  ease  in 
that  yast   palatial  garden  of   St 
James.    Tour  oflSce  coat  may  serve 
in  St  Jameses,  but  you  adorn  your- 
self with  all  adornments  for  Hjde 
Park.      You   go   leisurely    along, 
having  adjusted  your  watch  by  the 
Horse  Guards,  looking  at  the  soldiers, 
and  the  nurses,  and  the  children, 
glancing  at  the  island,  and  looking 
at  the  ducks— the  dainty,  overfed 
ducks— suggesting  all  sorts  of  orni- 
thological lore,  not  to  mention  low 
materialistic   associations  of  green 
peas  or  sage  and  onions.    ThoEe  dis« 
sipated   London   ducks   lay   their 
heads  under  their  wings  and  go  to 
roost  at  quite    fashionable  hours, 
that  would  astonish  their  primitiye 
country  brethren.    I  hope  you  like 
to  feed  ducks,  my  friends.  All  great, 
good-natured  people  haye  a  '  sneak- 
ing kindness'  for  feeding  ducks. 
There  is  a  most  learned  and  saga- 
cious bishop  who  won't  often  show 
himself  to  numan  bipeds,  but  he 
may  be  observed  by  them  in  his 
grounds  feeding  ducks  while  phi- 
losophising on  things  in  general, 
and  the  Irish  Church  Bill  in  par- 
ticular.   Then   what   crowded  re- 
miniscences we  might  haye  of  St 
James's  Park  and  of  the  Mall— of 
soyereigns  and  ministers,  courtiers 
and  fops,  lords  and  ladies,  philoso- 
phers and  thinkers  1    By  this  sheet 
of  water,  or  rather  by  the  pond  that 
then  was  a  favourite  resort  for  in- 
tending suicides,  Charles  II.  would 
play   with    his   dogs    or    dawdle 
with  his  mistresses;    feeding   the 
ducks  here  one  memorable  morning 
when  the  stupendous  reyelation  of 
a  Popish  plot  was  made  to  his  in- 
credulous ears ;  or  looking  grimly 
tov^rds  the  Banqueting  Hall  where 
his  father  perished,  when  the  debate 
on  the  Exclusion  Bill  was  running 
fiercely  high.     But  the  reminia- 


AftemocmB  in  *tke  Park.* 


99 


«enoeB  are  endless  which  heloog  to 
St  James's  ParL  Only  a  few  years 
4igo  there  was  the  private  entrance 
which  Jadge  Jeffreys  need  to  have 
by  special  licence  into  the  Park,  bat 
now  it  has  been  done  away.  There 
were  all  kinds  of  sni)er8tition8  float- 
ing abont  in  the  uninformed  West- 
minster mind  abont  Judge  Jeffreys. 
What  Sydney  Smith  said  in  joke  to 
the  poaching  lad^  '  that  he  had  a 
private  gallows/  was  believed  by 
the  Westmonasterians  to  be  real 
earnest  abont  Jeffreys— that  he  nsed 
after  dinner  to  seize  hold  of  any 
individual  to  whom  he  might  take 
a  fancy  and  hang  him  np  in  front 
of  his  house  for  his  own  personal 
delectation.  I  am  now  reconciled  to 
the  bridge  that  is  thrown  midway 
across,  although  it  certainly  limits 
the  expanse  of  the  ornamental 
water.  But  standing  on  the  orna- 
mental bridge,  and  looking  both 
westward  and  eastward,  I  know  of 
hardly  anything  comparable  to  that 
view.  That  green  neat  lawn  and 
noble  timber,  and  beyond  the  dense 
foliage  the  grey  towers  of  the  Abbey, 
and  the  gold  of  those  Houses  of 
Parliament^  which,  despite  captious 
criticism,  will  always  be  regarded 
as  the  most  splendid  examples  of 
the  architecture  of  the  great  Vic- 
torian era,  and  close  at  hand  the 
paths  and  the  parterres,  cause  the 
miyesty  and  greatness  of  England 
to  blend  with  this  beautiful  oasis 
islanded  between  the  deeerts  of 
Westminster  and  Pimlico.  Look- 
ing westward  too,  towards  Bucking- 
ham Palace—the  palace,  despite  ex- 
aggerated hostile  criticism,  is  at 
least  exquisitely  proportioned ;  but 
then  one  is  sorry  to  hear  about  the 
Palace  that  the  soldiers  are  so  ill 
stowed  away  there ;  and  the  Queen 
does  not  like  it ;  and  the  Hanoverian 
animal  pecuh'arly  abounds.  We  ro- 
collect  that  once  when  her  Majesty's 
was  ill,  aservant  ran  out  of  the  palace 
to  charier  a  cab  and  go  for  the 
doctor,  because  those  responsible 
for  the  household  had  not  made 
better  arrangements.  In  enumo- 
rating  the  Parks  of  London,  we 
ronght  not  to  forget  the  Queen's 
private  garden  of  Buckingham  Par 
lace,  hardly  leas  than  the  jQreen 
Park  in  extend  and  so  belonging 


to  the  system  of  the  lungs  of 
London. 

But  we    now  enter  the  great 
Hjde   Park  itself,   assuredly   the 
most  brilliant  spectacle  of  the  kind 
which  the  world  can  show.    It  is 
a  scene  which  may  well  tax  all  your 
powers  of  reasoning  and  of  phi- 
losophy.   And  you  must  know  the 
Park  very  well,  this  large  open 
drawing-room  which  in  the  season 
London  daily  holds,  before  you  can 
SufBoiently  temper  your  senses  to  be 
critical  and  analytical --before  you 
can  eliminate  the  lower  world,  the 
would-be  fashionable  element,  from 
the  most  affluent  and  highest  kind  of 
metropolitan  life — before  you  can 
judge  of  the  splendid  mounte  and 
the   splendid   caparisons,  between 
fine   carriages  and   fine   horses  — 
fine   carriages  where  perhaps  the 
cattle  are  lean  and  poor,  or  fine 
horses  where  the  carriages  are  old 
and  worn ;  the  carriages  and  horses 
absolutely  gorgeous,  but  with  too 
great  a  display ;  and,  again,  where 
the  perfection  is  absolute,  but  with 
as  much  quietude  as  possible,  the 
style  that  chiefly  invites  admira- 
tion by  the  apparent  desire  to  elude 
it    In  St  James's  Park  you  may 
lounge  and  be  listless  if  you  like; 
but  in   Hyde  Park,  though   you 
may  lounge,  you  must  still  be  alert 
.  Very  plodsaut  is  the  lounge  to  the 
outer  man,  but  in  the  inner  mind  you 
must  be  observant,  prepared  to  enjoy 
either  the  Eolitude  of  the  crowd,  or 
to  catoh   the    quick   glance,   the 
silvery  music  of  momentary  merri- 
ment, then  have  a  few  seconds  of 
rapid,  acute  dialogue,  or  perhaps 
be  beckoned  into  a  carriage  by  a 
friend  with  space  to  spare.    As  you 
lean  over  the  railings  you  perhaps 
catch  a  sight  of  a  most  exquisite 
face— a  face  that  is  photographed  on 
the  memory  for  its  features  and 
expression.      If  you   have  really 
noticed  such  a  face  the  day  is  a 
whiter  day  to  you;   somehow  or 
other  you  have  made  an  advance. 
But  it  is  mortifying,  when  you  con- 
template this  beautiful  image,  to  see 
some  gilded  youth  advance,  soul- 
less, brainless,  to  touch  the  fingers 
dear  te  yourself  and  look  into  eyes 
which  he  cannot  fathom  or  com- 
prehend.   Still  more  annoying  to 


100 


Ajienoom  m  ^ihe  Park' 


ihink  that  a  game  is  goiDg  on  in 
the  matrimoDial  money  market  I 
gometimea  think  thai  the  Ladies' 
Mile  ia  a  Teritable  female  Tatter- 
saU's,  where  feminine  charms  are 
on  Tiew  and  the  price  may  be  ap- 
praised^the  infinite  gambols  and 
onrvettingB  of  high-spirited  maiden- 
hood. Bnt  I  declare  on  my  oon- 
scienee  that  I  believe  the  Girl  of 
the  Period  has  a  heart,  and  that 
the  Girl  of  the  Period  is  not  so 
much  to  blame  as  her  mamma  or 
her  chaperona 

Bnt,  speaking  of  alterations,  I 
cannot  say  that  all  the  alterations 
are  exactly  to  my  mind.    It  is  not 
at  all  pleasing  that  the  habit  of 
smoking  has  crept  into  Botten  Row. 
The  excnse    is   that  the  Prince 
smokes.    Bnt  because  one  perBon, 
of  an  exceptional  and  unique  po- 
sition, doubtless  under  exceptional 
circumstances,  smokes,  that  is  no 
reason  why  the  mass  should  follow 
the  example.    Things  haye  indeed 
changed  within  the  last  few  years; 
the  race  is  degenerating  in  polite- 
ness.    In  the  best  of  bis  stories, 
'My  NoTcl,'  Lord  Lytton   makes 
Harley,  his  hero,  jeer  at  English 
liberty;  and  he  says:  'I  no  mora 
dare  smoke  this  cigar  in  the  Park 
at  half-past  six,  whfcu  all  the  world 
is  abroad,  than  I  dare  pick  mj 
Lord  Chancellor's   pocket,  or  hit 
the  Archbishop   of  Oanterbury  a 
thnmp  on  the  nose.*    Lord  Hather- 
ley's  pocket  is  still  safe,  and  we 
are  not  yet  come  to  days,  though 
we  seem  to  be  nearing  them,  when 
a  man  in  a  crowd  may  send  a  blow 
into  a  prelate's  face.    We  have  had 
such  days  before,  and  we  may  have 
them  again.    But  smoking  is  now 
common  enough,  and  ought  to  be 
abated  as  a  naisance.    Some  ladies 
like  it,  and  really  like  it:  and  that 
is  all  very  well,  but  other  ladies 
are  exceedingly  annoyed.    A  lady 
takes    her    chair    to    watch  the 
moving  panorama,  intending  per- 
haps to  make  a  call  presently,  and 
men   are  smoking  within   a  few 
paces  to  her  infinite    annoyance 
and  the  spoiling  of  her  pleasure. 
Her  dress  is  really  spoilt,  and  there 
is   the  trouble  of  another  toilet 
Talking  of  toilets,  I  heard  a  calcu- 
lation the  other  day  of  how  many 


the  Princess  of  Wales  had  made  in 
a  single  day.  She  had  gone  to  the 
laying  of  the  foundation  sUme  of 
Earlswood  Asylum,  snd  then  to  the 

Saat  State  breakfast  at  Bucking* 
m  Palace,  and  then  a  dinner  and 
a  ball,  and  one  or  two  other  things. 
The  Princess  truly  works  very 
hard,  harder  indeed  than  peoide 
really  know.  I  went  the  other  oay 
to  a  concert,  where  many  a  (me  was 
asked  to  go,  and  the  Princess  was 
there,  in  her  desire  to  oblige  worthy 
people,  and  sat  it  all  through  to 
the  very  last  with  the  pleasantest 
smiles  and  the  most  intelligent 
attention.  Let  me  also,  since  I 
am  criticizing,  say  that  the  new 
restaurant  in  the  Park  is  a  decided 
innovation,  and  that  to  oomplete 
the  new  ride,  to  carrjr  Botten  Bow 
all  round  the  Park,  is  certainly  to 
interfere  with  the  enjo}ment  of 
pedestrians.  It  is,  however,  to  bo 
said,  in  justice,  that  the  pedestrians 
have  the  other  parks  pretty  much 
to  themselves.  There  is,  however, 
a  worse  error  still,  in  the  rapid 
increase  of  the  demi-monde  in  the 
Park.  A  man  hardly  (eels  easy  in 
conducting  a  lady  into  the  Park 
and  answering  all  the  questions 
that  may  be  put  to  him  respecting 
the  inmates  of  gorgeous  carriages 
that  sweep  by.  These  demireps  make 
peremptory  conditions  that  they 
shall  have  brooghams  for  the  Park 
and  tickets  for  the  Horticultural, 
and  even  for  the  fdtes  at  the  Bo- 
tanical Gardens.  This  is  a  nuisance 
that  requires  to  be  abated  as  muck 
as  any  in  Begent  Street  or  the 
Haymarkei  The  police  ought  to 
have  peremptory  orders  to  exoludo 
such  carriages  and  their  occupants. 
Twenty  years  ago  there  was  a  dead 
set  made  in  Cheshire,  against  the  as- 
pirants of  Liverpool  and  Manchester, 
by  the  gentry  of  that  county  most 
fiunoos  for  the  pedigrees  of  the 
gentry,  who  wish<^  to  maintain  the 
splendonr  of  family  pritia  For  in- 
stance, the  steward  of  a  county  ball 
went  up  to  a  manufacturer  who  was 
making  his  eighty  thousand  a  year 
and  told  him  that  no  tradesman 
was  admitted.  Timt  was  of  course 
absurd;  but  still,  if  that  waa 
actually  done,  an  inspector  ahoold 
step  up  to  the  most  faahionabla 


AfUmoom  in  *  the  Parh' 


101 


Mabel  or  Lais/and  tnrn  her  hones' 
heads,  if  ohetreperoas,  in  the  di- 
rection of  Bridewell  or  Bow  Street 
Anooyma  has  roled  the  Park  too 
much.  The  faTonrite  drive  need 
to  be  round  the  Serpentine ;  bat 
when  the  prettiest  eqnipage  in 
London  drew  all  gazers  to  the 
Ladies'  Mile,  the  Serpentine  became 
comparatively  nnnsed,  and  the 
Ladies'  Mile,  gronnd  infiniteljr  in- 
ferior, became  the  faTonrite  until  the 
renovated  Serpentine  or  change  of 
whim  shall  moold  anew  the  fickle, 
-volatile  shape  of  fiishbnable  vagary. 
At  this  present  time  Mr.  Alfred 
Austin's  clever  satire '  The  Season' 
— the  third  edition  of  which  is 
jjost  out— recurs  to  me.  The  ]^m 
is  a  very  clever  onop  and  it  is 
even  better  appredatad  on  the 
othe|  side  of  the  Channel  than  on 
this,^  is  evidenced  by  M.  Forqnes' 
article  on  the  sabfect  in  the '  Bevne 
des  Deoz  Mondes.'  We  will  group 
together  a  lew  passages  from  Mr. 
Austin's  vigorous  poem,*  belonging 
to  the  Parks. 

'  I  ring  the  eeuao,  Moae  I  wbon  vinij  extendt 
WlierB  ^yde  IwgtaM  b^ond  where  Tyborn  ends ; 
Qctietlw  taiMd  gkre^MTewlwrewith  borrowed 

Some  taMto  Fhrttoo  nto  the  drive  ablaa. 
OMrpreiljfledClliifil  oome  flnoa  conntiy  nett. 
To  nIbUe,  obirm  Mid  flutter  In  tbe  west; 
Wboee  cicax.  freah  Dues,  with  tbeir  fickle  frown 
And  faToor,  ■tart  like  Spring  npoo  tbe  town ; 
LeH  dear,  for  damaged  dameelik  doomed  to  wait ; 
Wboie  thtrA-fporthf  aeaaon  makei  balf  dea- 


WaUng  with  wannlh*  tern  potent  boor  bj  boor 
(At  magneiB  heated  kae  attractiTe  power). 
Or  700  nor  dear  nor  damaela,  tongb  and  tart. 
Unmarketable  maidena  of  tbe  mart^ 
;  Whob  plnmpneM  gone,  fine  detlOMj  lUnt, 
And  bide  joor  itea  in  pir^  and  iMiint. 

•IneongriMMM  group  tbejeme;  the  Judged  back. 
With  knaea  at  bnlMi  M  ita  riders  back : 
Tbe  counad'B  oouraar,  f*imWing  ttam^  the 

throng. 
With  wind  e'en  aborter  than  ita  lord'a  la  long : 
Tbe  foreign  maninta'a  aocomiillabed  colt 
Sharing  iia  owner'a  tendency  to  bolt 

'Comt.  let  w  back,  and,  whOat  the  Ftek'a  allTc^ 
liean  oTer  the  raningi^  and  Inapect  the  DtiTn. 
etill  aweepa  the  long  proeeaalon,  wboee  arraj 
Oivca  to  the  lonngsr'a  gate,  aa  waaea  the  daj. 
Its  rich  ntUnIng  and  n-poaeftil  format 
etui  aa  bright  auniKts  after  misu  or  atorma; 

'The  SMaoo:  a  Satire.'  By  Alfred 
Austin.  New  and  revisHl  edition  (tbe 
ibird).  London:  John  Cunden  Hotten. 
1869. 


Who  ait  and  anile  (their  momfaig  wrangUngi 

o'er. 
Or  dragged  and  dawdled  throngb  one  doll  day 

more), 
Aa  tboaiSh  tbe  life  of  widow,  wife,  and  girt 
Were  one  long  lapelng  and  volnptnona  wUiL 
0  poor  pretence  I  wbat  eye*  ao  blind  bat  see 
Tbe  aad.  bow«rver  elegant,  ennnl  ? 
Tbiuk  yuu  that  blasoned  panel,  prandng  pair. 
Befuol  our  vlclun  to  the  weight  they  bear? 
The  aofieat  ribbon,  plnk-llned  paraaoU 
Screen  not  tlie  woman,  though  they  deck  the 

duIL 
The  padded  ooraaga  and  the  wdl-matcbed  hair, 
Judldoua  Jupon  qMreading  out  tlie  spare. 
Sleeves  well  deidgned  Ikbe  plumpncaa  to  impart. 
Leave  vacant  aUU  tlie  hollows  of  the  heart;. 
Is  not  our  Lieabla  lovdy  ?    In  her  aoul 
Leabia  la  troubled :  LeaUa  bath  a  mole; 
And  all  the  aplendoors  of  that  matchlei  neck 
Oonaole  not  Leabia  %*  iu  atngle  apeck. 
Kale  comae  from  Atftik  and  a  wardrobe  bcingi^ 
To  which  poor  Edithli  are 


Her  pet  lace  abawl  baa  grown  not  fit  to  wear. 
And  mined  Edith  dxesfca  in  deqpalr.' 

Mr.  Austin  is  sufficiently  severe 
upon  the  ladies,  especially  those 
wnoee  afternoons  in  toe  Park  have 
some  oorrespondenoe  with  their  'af- 
ternoon of  Ufa'  I  think  that  the 
elderly  men  who  ape  youthful  airs 
are  eyery  whit  as  numerous  and  as 
open  to  sazoasm.  Your  ancient 
buck  is  always  a  &ir  butt  And 
who  does  not  know  these  would*be 
juyeniles,  their  thin,  wasp-like 
waists,  their  elongated  necks  and 
suspensury  eye-glasses,  their  elabo- 
rate and  manufiiiotured  hair?  They 
like  the  dissipations  of  youth  so 
well  that  they  can  oonoeive  of 
nothing  more  glorious,  entirdy 
ignoring  that  autumnal  fruit  is, 
after  all,  better  than  the  blossom  or 
fbliage  of  spriog  or  early  autumn. 
All  they  know,  indeed,  of  autumn 
is  the  Tariegation  and  motley  of 
colour.  The  antiquated  juYenue  is 
certainly  one  of  the  yeriest  subjects 
for  satire;  and  antiquated  juyeniles 
do  aboundof  an  aftoioon  m  Botten 
Bow.  Nothing  we  can  say  about  a 
woman's  naddmg  can  be  worse  than 
the  paddmg  which  is  theirs.  All 
thehr  idiotic  grinning  cannot  hide 
the  hated  crows'-feet  about  their 
gogffle,  idiotic  eyes.  They  try,  in- 
deed, the  power  of  dress  to  the  ut- 
most; but  in  a  day  when  all  classes 
are  alike  eztrayagant  in  dress,  efen 
the  fiftlsity  of  the  first  impression 
wUl  not  saye  them  from  minute 


102 


AfUirwHm  tn  ^ihe  Park: 


oriticfsm.  Talk  to  them,  and  they 
will  draw  largely  on  the  lemiDis- 
cenoes  of  their  yonth,  perhaps  still 
more  largely  on  their  faculty  of  in* 
Tention.  What  a  happy  dispensa- 
tion it  is  in  the  case  of  men  intensely 
wicked  and  worldly,  that  in  yonth, 
when  they  might  do  infinite  evil, 
they  have  not  the  necessary  know- 
ledge of  the  world  and  of  human 
nainre  to  enahle  them  to  do  so;  and 
when  they  have  a  store  of  wicked 
experience,  the  powers  have  fled 
which  woT^d  have  enabled  them  to 
tnm  it  to  fall  account  1  At  this 
moment  I  remember  a  hoary  old 
yillain  talking  ribaldry  with  his 
middle-aged  son,  both  of  them 
dreesed  to  an  inch  of  their  lives, 
asnd  believing  that  the  fashion  of 
this  world  necessarily  endures  for 
ever.  Granting  the  tyranny  and 
perpetuity  of  fashion— for  in  the 
worst  times  of  the  French  rerolu- 
tion  fashion  still  maintained  its 
sway,  and  the  operas  and  theatres 
were  never  closed — (till  each  indivi- 
dual tyrant  of  fashion  has  only  his 
day,  and  often  the  day  is  a  Tery 
brief  one.  Nothing  is  more  be- 
ooming  than  gray  hairs  worn  gal- 
lantly and  well,  and  when  accom- 
panied with  sense  and  worth  they 
have  often  borne  avray  a  lovely 
bride,  rich  and  accomplished,  too, 
from  some  silly,  gilded  youth.  I  have 
known  marriages  between  January 
and  May,  where  May  has  been  really 
very  fond  of  January.  After  all, 
the  aged  Adonis  generally  pairs  off 
with  Pome  antiquated  Venus;  the 
juvenilities  on  each  side  are  elimi- 
nated as  being  common  to  both 
and  of  no  real  import,  and  the 
settlement  is  arranged  by  the  law- 
yers and  by  family  friends  on  a 
sound  commercial  basis. 

It  is  very  easy  for  those  who 
devote  themselres  to  the  study  of 
satirical  composition,  and  cultivate 
a  sneer  for  things  in  general,  to  be 
witty  on  the  frivolities  of  the  Park. 
And  this  is  the  worst  of  satire,  that 
it  is  bound  to  be  pungent,  and  can- 
not pauFe  to  be  aiscriminating  and 
{'U6i  Even  the  most  sombre  re- 
igionist  begins  to  understand  that 
he  may  uf  e  the  world,  without  try- 
ing to  drain  its  sparkling  cup  to  the 
dregs.    Hyde  Park  is  oertamly  not 


abandoned  to  idlesK.  The  moet 
practical  men  recognise  its  import- 
ance and  utility  to  them.  There 
are  good  wives  who  go  down  to  the 
dubs  or  the  Houses  in  their  car- 
riages to  insist  that  their  lords  shall 
take  a  drive  before  they  dine  and 
go  back  to  the  House.  And  when 
you  see  saddle-horses  led  up  and 
down  in  Palace  Yard,  the  rider  will 
most  probably  take  a  gallop  before 
he  comes  back  to  be  squeezed  and 
heated  by  the  House  of  Commons  or 
be  blown  away  by  the  over-ventila- 
tion of  the  House  of  Lords.  A  man 
begins  to  understand  that  it  is  part  of 
his  regular  vocation  in  life  to  move 
about  in  the  Park.  And  all  mea  da 
80,  especially  when  the  sun's  beama 
are  tempered  and  when  the  cooling 
evening  breeze  is  springing  up.  Uhe 
merchant  from  the  City,  the  la^er 
from  his  office,  the  clergyman  Vom 
his  parish,  the  governess  in  her 
spare  hours,  the  artist  in  his  love  of 
nature  and  human  nature,  all  feel 
that  the  fresh  air  and  the  fresh 
faces  will  do  them  good.  There 
was  a  literary  man  who  took  a 
Brompton  apartment  with  the  back 
windows  fronting  the  Park.  Hither 
he  used  to  resort,  giving  way  to  the 
fascination  which  led  him,  hour  after 
hour,  to  study  the  appearances  pre- 
sented to  him.  The  subject  is,  indeed^ 
T«ry  interesting  and  attractive,  inr 
eluding  especially  the  very  popular 
study  of  flirtation  in  all  its  forms 
and  branches.  If  you  really  wanjk 
to  see  the  Bow  you  must  go  very 
early  in  the  afbomoon.  Early  in  the 
afteinooQ  the  equestrians  ride  for 
ezerdse;  later,  they  ride  much  in 
the  same  way  as  they  promenade. 
The  Prince  for  a  long  time  used  to 
ride  early  in  the  afternoon,  if  only 
to  save  himself  the  trouble  of  that 
incessant  salutation  which  must  be 
a  serious  drawback  on  H.  B.  H.'s 
enjoyment  of  his  leisure.  Or,  again,, 
late  in  the  evening,  it  is  interesting 
to  note  the  gradual  thinning  of  the 
Park  and  its  new  occupants  come 
upon  the  scene.  The  habUaS  of 
Botten  Bow  is  able,  with  nice  gra- 
dations, to  poiot  out  how  the  cold 
winds  and  rains  of  the  early  summer 
have  night  after  night  emptied  the 
Park  at  an  earlier  hour,  oj^  how  a 
f&te  at  the  Horticultural,  or  a  gala 


AftemooM  in  *  (he  Park' 


108 


at  the  CiTBtal  Palace,  has  seDsibly 
thinned  the  attendance.  As  the 
affluent  go  home  to  dress  and  dine, 
the  6008  and  daughters  of  penury 
vho  have  shunned  the  broad  sun- 
light creep  out  into  the  vacant 
spaces.  The  last  carriages  of  those 
who  are  going  home  from  the  pro- 
menade meet  the  first  carriages  of 
those  who  are  going  out  to  dine. 
Only  two  nights  ago  I  met  the 
carriage  of  Mr.  Disraeli  and  his 
wife.  I  promise  you  tbe  Yisoountess 
Beaconsfieldlooked  magnificent  Cu- 
riously enough  they  were  diuing  at 
the  same  honse,  where,  not  many 
years  ago,  Mr.  Disraeli  dined  with 

S)or  George  Hadsoo.  When  Mr. 
udson  had  a  dinner  given  to  him 
lately,  it  is  said  that  he  was  much 
afilBcted,  and  told  his  hosts  that  its 
cost  would  have  kept  him  and  his 
for  a  month. 

The  overwhelming  importance  of 
the  Parks  to  London  is  w^i  brought 
out  by  that  shrewd  observer,  Crabb 
Bobioson,  in  his  recent  Diary.  Un- 
der February  15,  1818,  he  writes: 
'At  two  I  took  a  ride  into  the 
Begent's  Part^  which  I  had  never 
seen  before.  When  the  trees  are 
grown  this  will  be  really  an  orna- 
ment to  the  capital ;  and  not  a  mere 
ornament  bat  a  healthful  appendaga 
The  Highgate  and  ilampstead  Hill 
is  a  beautiful  object ;  and  within  the 
Park  the  artificial  water,  the  cir- 
cular belt  or  coppice,  the  few  scat- 
tered bridges,  &o.,  are  objects  of 
taste.  I  really  think  this  enclosure, 
with  the  new  street  leading  to  it 
from  Carlton  Hoase  [Regent  Street] 
will  give  a  sort  of  glory  to  the  Re- 
gent's government,  greater  than  the 
victories  of  Trafalgar  and  Waterloo, 
glorious  as  these  are.'  Here,  again, 
almost  at  haphazard,  is  a  quotation 
from  an  American  writer :  '  So  vast 
is  the  extent  of  these  successiye 
ranges,  and  so  much  of  England 
can  one  fijid,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst 
of  London.  Ob,  wise  and  prudent 
John  Bull,  to  ennoble  thy  metro- 
polis with  such  spacious  country 
walks,  and  to  sweeten  it  so  much 
with  country  air!  Truly  these 
lungs  of  London  are  vital  to  such 
a  Babylon,  and  there  is  no  beauty 
to  be  compared  to  them  in  any  dty 
I  have  ever  seen.    I  do  not  think 


the  English  are  half  proud  enough 
of  their  capital,  conceited  as  they 
are  about  so  many  things  besides. 
Here  you  see  the  best  of  horse-flesh, 
laden  with  the  "porcelain  clay"  of 
human  flesh.  Anl  how  darling^ 
the  ladies  go  by,  and  how  ambi- 
tiously their  favoured  companions 
display  their  good  fortune  in  at- 
tending them.  Here  a  gay  creature 
rides  independbutly  enongh  with 
her  footman  at  a  respectful  distance. 
She  is  an  heiress,  and  the  young 
gallants  she  scarce  deigns  to  notice 
are  dying  for  love  of  her  and  her 
guineas.' 

Bat,  after  all,  is  there 'anything 
more  enjoyable  iu  its  way  than 
Kensington  Gardens?  You  axe 
not  so  neglig6  as  in  St  James's,  but 
it  is  comparative  undress  com- 
pared with  Hyde  Park.  Truly 
there  are  days,  and  even  in  the 
height  of  the  season  too,  when  you 
may  lie  down  on  the  grass  and 
gaze  into  the  depth  of  sky,  listening 
to  the  murmnroos  breeze,  and  thai 
&r-off  hum  which  might  be  a  sound 
of  distant  waves,  and  fancy  yourself 
in  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood* 
Ah,  what  thrilling  scenes  have  coma 
off  beneath  these  horse-chestnuts 
with  their  thick  leaves  and  pyra- 
midal  blossoms  I  And  if  only  those 
whispers  were  audible,  if  only  those 
tell-tale  leaves  might  murmur  their 
confessions,  what  narratives  might 
these  snpply  of  the  idyllic  side  of 
London  life,  sufficient  to  content  a 
legion  of  romancists!  It  is  a  fine 
thing  for  Orlando  to  havo  a  gallop 
by  the  side  of  his  pretty  ladylove 
down  the  Row,  bat  Orlando  knows 
very  well  that  if  he  could  only  draw 
her  arm  through  his  and  lead  her 
down  some  vista  in  those  gardens, 
it  would  be  well  for  him.  Oh,  yield- 
ing hands  and  eyes!  oh,  mantling 
blushes  and  eloquent  tears  I  oh,  soft 
glances  and  all  fine  tremor  of 
speech,  in  those  gardens  more  than 
in  Armina's  own  are  ye  abounding. 
There  is  an  intense  human  interest 
about  Kensington  Gardens  which 
grows  more  and  more,  as  one  takes 
one*s  walks  abroad  and  the  scene 
becomes  intelligible.  See  that  slim 
maid,  demurely  reading  beneath 
yonder  trees,  those  old  trees  which 
artista  love  in  the  morning  to  oome 


104 


Aftemotm  in  'the  Park: 


and  sketch.  She  glances  more  than 
once  at  her  watch,  and  then  sad- 
denlj  with  Btirpriflo  she  greets  a 
lounger.  I  thought  at  the  very 
first  that  her  enrprise  was  an  affeo- 
tation ;  and  as  I  see  how  she  disap- 
pears with  him  through  that  orer- 
arching  leafy  arcade  my  surmise 
becomes  oonvietioo.  As  for  the 
nursery  maids  who  let  their  little 
charges  loiter  or  riot  about,  or  even 
the  sedater  gOTernesses  with  their 
more  serious  aimoj  who  will  let  gen* 
ilemanly  little  b(»ys  and  girls  grow 
yery  oonversational,  while  they  are 
Tery  conversational  themselves  with 
tall  whiskered  cousins  or  casual  ao- 
ouaintance,  why,  I  can  only  say, 
that  for  Uie  sake  of  the  most  ma- 
ternal hearts  beating  in  this  great 
metropolis,  I  am  truly  rejoiced  to 
think  that  there  are  no  carriage 
roads  through  the  Qaidens,  and  the 
little  ones  can  hardly  come  to  any 
Tery  serious  mischief. 

Are  you  now  inclined,  my  friends, 
for  a  little— and  I  promise  you  it 
shall  really  be  a  little— discourse 
ooncerning  those  Parks,  that  shall 
have  a  slight  dash  of  literature  and 
history  about  it?  First  of  all,  let 
me  tell  you,  that  in  a  park  you 
ought  always  to  feel  loyal,  since  for 
our  parks  we  are  indebted  to  our 
kings.     The  Teiy  definition  of  a 

Sdc  jft— I  assuK  you  I  am  quoting 
e  great  Blaokstone  himself— 'an 
enclosed  chase,  extending  only  orer 
a  man's  own  grounds,'  and  the  Parks 
have  been  the  grounds  of  the  sove- 
reign's own  self.  It  is  true  of  more 
than  one  British  Cffisar — 

*  If oreoTcr  be  bath  left  yoa  aU  bla  walki, 
.  His  prlyate  arboun  and  new-pUntad  erduuda 
On'ibb  tide  Tlbnr ;  be  bath  left  them  yon 
And  to  yoar  hcln  for  ever;  oommon  pleasures 
To"  walk  abrosd  and  reereale  younelTcs.' 

Once  in  the  fiur  distant  time  they  were 
genuine  parks  with  beasts  of  chase. 
We  are  told  that  the  City  corpora- 
tion bunted  the  hare  at  the  head  of 
the  conduit,  where  Ck)nduit  Street 
now  stands,  and  killed  the  fox  at 
the  end  •  of  St  Giles's.  St  James's 
Park  was  especially  the  courtier's 

Sirk,  a  very  drawing-room  of  parks, 
ow  spleodidlj  over  the  goigeous 
scene  floats  the  royal  banner  of 
SnglaDd,  atihefootof  OoDStitntioii 


Hill,  which  has  been  truly  called 
the  most  chastely-goi^eous  banner 
in  the  world!  If  you  look  at  the 
dramatistsof  the  Restoration  yon  find 
frequent  notices  of  the  Park,  which 
are  totally  wanting  in  the  Eliza- 
be  than  diumatiBts,  when  it  was  only 
a  nursery  for  deer.  Cromwell  had 
shut  up  Spring  Qardens,  but  Charles 
IL  gave  us  St  James's  Park.  In 
the  next  century  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, desorilnng  his  house,  says : 
*  The  avenues  to  this  house  are  along 
St  James's  Park,  through  rows  of 
goodly  elms  on  one  hand  and 
nourishing  limes  on  the  other;  that 
for  coaches,  this  for  walking,  with 
the  MaU  lying  between  them.'  It 
was  in  the  Park  that  the  grave 
Evelyn  saw  and  heard  his  {gracious 
sovereign  'hold  a  very  fiuniliar  dis- 
course with  Mrs.  Nellie,  as  they 
called  an  impudent  comedian,  she 
looking  out  of  her  garden  on  a  ter- 
race at  the  top  of  the  wall'  Hess 
Pepys  saw '  above  all  Bfrs.  Stuart  ia 
this  dress  with  her  hat  oockedand 
a  red  plume,  with  her  sweet  ^e, 
little  Boman  nose,  and  excellent 
taiUe,  the  greatest  beauty  I  ever 
saw,  I  think,  in  my  Ufa'  Or  take  a 
play  from  Etheridge. 

'  Enter  SiB  FoPLiva  FLuma  and 
his  equipage, 

*  Sir  Fop.  Hey!  bid  the  coachman 
send  home  four  of  his  hones  and 
bring  the  coach  to  Whitehall;  I'll 
walk  over  the  Park.  Madam,  the 
honour  of  kissing  your  &ir  hands  is 
a  happiness  I  missed  this  afternoon 
at  my  lady  Townly's. 

*  Leo.  You  were  very  obliging.  Sir 
Foplmg,  the  last  time  I  saw  you 
there. 

'  Sir  Fop.  The  preference  was  due 
to  your  wit  and  beauty.  Madam, 
your  servant  There  never  was  so 
sweet  an  evening. 

'  Bdlinda,  It  has  drawn  all  the 
rabble  of  the  town  hither. 

'  Sir  Fop.  'lis  pity  there  is  not  an 
order  made  that  none  but  the  heau 
monde  should  walk  here.' 

In  Swift's  '  Journal  to  Stella'  we 
have  much  mention  of  the  Park: 
'to  bring  himself  down,'  he  says, 
that  being  the  fiantmg  system  of 
that  day,  he  used  to  start  on  his 


106 


AJUraocm  In  ^  Ae  Park! 


walk  about  sunset  Horace  Wal- 
pole  sajs :  '  My  ]ady  Coventry  aod 
niece  Waldegrave  have  been  mobbed 
in  tbe  Pork.  I  am  sorry  the  people 
of  England  take  all  their  hberty  out 
in  insulting  pretty  women/  He 
elsewhere  tells  us  with  what  state 
he  and  the  ladies  went.  '  We  sailed 
up  the  Mall  with  all  our  colours 
flying/  We  do  not  hear  much  of 
the  Green  Park.  It  was  for  a  long 
time  most  likely  a  village  green, 
where  the  citizens  would  enjoy 
rough  games,  and  in  the  early  morn- 
ing duellists  would  resort  hither  to 
heal  their  wounded  honour. 

Originally  Kensington  Gardens 
and  Hyde  Park  were  all  on&  Ad- 
dison speaks  of  it  in  the  '  Spectator/ 
and  it  is  only  since  the  time  of 
George  11.  that  a  severance  has 
been  made.  Hyde  Park  has  its  own 
place  in  literature  and  in  history. 
There  was  a  certain  first  of  May 
when  both  Pepys  and  Evelyn  were  in- 
terested in  Hyde  Park.  Pepys  says : 
'  I  went  to  Hide  Park  to  take  the  air^ 
where  was  his  Majosty  and  an  innu- 
merable appearance  of  gallants  and 
rich  coaches,  being  now  a  time  of 
universal  festivity  and  joy.'  It  was 
always  a  great  place  for  reviews. 
They  are  held  there  still,  and  the 
Volunteers  have  often  given  great 
liveliness  to  the  Park  on  Saturday. 
Here  Cromwell  used  to  review  his 
terrible  Ironsides.  It  was  Queen 
Caroline  who  threw  a  set  of  ponds 
into  one  sheet  of  water,  and  as  the 
water-line  was  not  a  direct  one,  it 
was  called  the  Serpentine.  The 
fosse  and  low  wall  was  then  a  new 
invention;  'an  attempt  deemed  so 
astonishing  that  the  common  people 
called  them  ha-has  to  express  their 
surprise  at  finding  a  sudden  and 
unperceived  check  to  their  walk.' 
It  is  eaid  that  a  nobleman  who  had 
a  house  abutting  on  the  Park  en- 
graved the  words 

"TiB  my  delight  to  be 
In  tbe  town  and  the  oonntrce.' 

Antiquaries  may  find  out  count- 
less points  of  interest,  and  may  be 
able  to  identify  special  localities. 
Once  there  were  chalybeate  springs 
in  a  sweet  glen,  now  spoilt  by  the 
canker  of  ugly  barracks.  It  was 
on  the  cards  that  the  Park  might 


have  been  adorned  with  a  rotunda 
instead.  Most  of  the  literary  asso- 
ciations cluster  around  Kensington 
Gardens,  concerning  which  Lttgh 
Hunt  has  written  much  pleasant 
gossip  in  his  'Old  Court  oiiburb.' 
A  considerable  amount  of  history 
and  an  infinite  amount  of  gossip 
belong  to  Kensington  Palace,  now 
assigned  to  the  Duchess  of  Inver- 
ness, the  morganatic  wife  of  the 
Duke  of  Sussex;  gossip  about 
George  IL  and  his  wife,  about 
Lord  Hervey,  the  queen  and  her 
maids  of  honour,  the  bad  beautiful 
Duchess  of  Kingston,  the  charming 
Sarah  Lennox,  Selwyn,  March,  Bubb 
Doddington,  and  that  crew,  whom 
Mr.  Thackeray  delighted  to  repro- 
duce. There  is  at  least  one  pure  scene 
dear  to  memory  serene,  that  the 
Princess  Victoria  was  born  and  bred 
here,  and  at  five  o*clock  one  morning 
aroused  from  her  slumliers,  to  come 
down  with  dishevelled  hair  to  hear 
from  great  nobles  that  she  was  now 
the  queen  of  the  broad  empire  on 
which  the  morning  and  the  evening 
star  ever  shines. 

I  am  very  fond  of  lounging 
through  the  Park  at  an  hour  when 
it  is  well-nigh  all  deserted.  I  am 
not,  indeed,  altogether  solitary  in 
my  ways  and  modes.  There  are 
certain  carriages  which  roll  into 
tbe  Park  almost  at  the  time  when 
all  other  carriages  have  left  or  are 
leaving.  In  my  solitariness  I 
feel  a  sympathy  with  those  who 
desire  the  coolness  and  freshness 
when  they  are  most  perfect  I  have 
an  interest,  too,  in  the  very  roughs 
that  lounge  about  the  parks.  I 
think  them  far  superior  to  the 
roughs  that  lounge  about  the 
streets.  Here  is  an  athletic  scamp. 
I  admire  his  easy  litheness  and 
excellent  proportion  of  limb.  He 
is  a  scamp  and  a  tramp,  but  then  he 
is  such  on  an  intelligible  rosthetical 
principle.  He  has  flong  himself 
down,  in  the  pure  physical  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  just  as  a  Neapolitan 
will  bask  in  the  sunshine,  to  enjoy 
tbe  turf  and  the  atmosphera  In 
his  splendid  animal  life  he  will 
sleep  for  hours,  unfearing  draught 
or  miasma,  untroubled  with  ache  or 
pain,  obtaining  something  of  a  com- 


From  Bemenham  Liand  to  Henley, 


107 


pensaiion  for  his  negative  troubles 
and  privations.  If  you  oome  to 
talk  to  the  vagrant  sons  and 
daughters  of  poverty  loitering  till 
the  Park  is  cleared,  or  even  sleep- 
ing here  the  livelong  night,  you 
vould  obtain  a  elear  view  of  that 
night  side  which  is  never  far  from 
the  bright  side  of  London.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  might  not  commend 
such  a  beat  as  this  to  some  philan- 
thropist for  his  special  attention. 
The  nandsome,  wilful  boy  who  has 
run  away  from  home  or  school ;  the 
thoughtless  clerk  or  shopman  out 
of  work;  the  poor  usher,  whose 
little  store  has  been  spent  in  ill- 
ness; the  servant-girl  who  has 
been  so  long  without  a  place,  and 
is  now  hovering  on  the  borders  of 


penury  and  the  extreme  limit  .of 
temptation;  they  are  by  no  means 
rare,  with  their  easily- yielded  se- 
eretB,  doubtless  with  some  amount 
of  impostore,  and  always,  when  the 
truth  comes  to  be  known,  with 
large  blame  attachable  to  their 
faults  or  weakness,  but  still  with 
a  very  large  percentage  where  some 
sympathy  or  substantial  help  will 
be  of  the  greatest  possible  assist- 
ance. As  one  knocks  about  liondon, 
one  accumulates  souvenirs  of  -all 
kinds— some  perhaps  that  will  not 
voir  well  bear  much  inspection; 
and  it  may  be  a  pleasing  reflection 
that  you  went  to  some  little  ex- 
penditure of  time  or  coiu  to  save 
some  lad  from  the  hulks  or  some 
girl  from  ruin. 


FEOM  EEMENHAM  ISLAND  TO  HENLEY. 


THE  racing  over  that  long  mile 
and  a  quarter  between  the 
Temple  on  Bemenham  Island  and 
Henl^  old  bridge,  the  scene  of 
some  of  the  '  quickest  things '  ever 
rowed  by  amateur  oarsmen,  l<»t 
little  pntiige  this  year.  Most  of  its 
ancient  traditions  were  ftilly  borne 
out,  and  the  thirty-first  meeting 
took  place  in  weather  quite  as  rough, 
as  cold,  and  as  wet,  as  those  who 
have  'assisted'  any  time  within 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century  could 
have  prognosticated.  The  first  day 
opened  gloomily,  and  brought  us 
a  March  wind  which  chilled  the  air 
until  the  sun  dispersed  the  clouds, 
spread  its  tempering  influence,  and 
xnade  even  hanging  about  the  tow- 
path  quite  pleasant  Thursday,  how- 
ever, was  an  unmistakable  up-river 
day.  From  an  early  hour  in  the 
mwning  rain  had  follen,  and  con- 
tinued without  cessation  to  literally 
pour  down  till  near  the  time  fixed 
for  racing  to  commence.  Then 
luckily  the  clouds  broke,  and  for  a 
couple  of  hours  or  so  there  was  a 
lull  Tbe  Lion  Garden,  however, 
was  soon  deserted  again  by  the  few 
ladies  who  had  been  daring  enough 
to  attempt  to  brave  the  elements, 
a  brace  of  sharp  showers  driving 
them  back  to  the  Grand  Stand, 
where  they  remained  during  the 


remainder  of  the  day,  although 
it  was  afterwards  fine  and  warm. 
The  attendance  did  not  reach  any- 
thing like  that  of  the  previous  year; 
but  the  '  pampers  out,'  and  those 
who  made  a  night  of  it  on  the  river, 
appeared  quite  as  numerous.  We 
paid  a  visit  of  inspection  on  the 
second  morning  of  tbe  regatta  as 
far  as  Hurley  Lock,  and  found  can- 
vas spread  in  all  directions,  the 
occupants  here  and  there  raising  a 
comer  and  gazing  moodily  at  us 
as  at  intruders  on  their  solitude. 
Peace  be  to  them!  We  had  no 
thought  of  disturbing  their  reflec- 
tions, which  must  have  been  of  the 
most  cheerless  description  after  a 
night  of  damp  and  dew  followed,  as 
dawn  appeared,  by  a  severe  soaking 
of  many  hours'  duration.  There  is 
no  greater  discomfort  than  bivou- 
acking in  wet  weather:  ask  those 
who  spent  the  first  night  in  tents 
on  Wimbledon  last  year  for  their 
opinion.  Many  were  literally 
washed  out  of  their  beds,  and  had 
to  apply  many  a  time  and  oft  to 
the  black  dndeen  and  the  wicker 
cask  for  consolation.  The  heavy 
rain  had  also  the  effect  of  flooding 
the  tow-path  with  pools  of  water, 
and  after  the  trampling  of  hundreds 
of  feet  of  reducing  it  to  the  con- 
sistency of  dough,  so  that  the  '  go- 


108 


Fttm  Bemmham  Idcmd  to  Heideif. 


iDg'  was  not  qtiite  so  agrreeable 
as  it  might  have  been.  Ere  the 
laoing  was  over  most  of  the  mnnen 
were  plentifally  bespattered  from 
their  faces  downward,  while  their 
nether  garments  were  quite  lost  in 
mnd,  making  the  wearers  altogether 
hsjrdly  recognisable.  But  enough 
of  this:  much  requires  to  be  said 
of  the  sport  and  the  space  at  our 
disposal  IS  limited. 

A  strong  breeze  from  N.N.W.  on 
Wednesday  made  choice  of  stations 
a  matter  of  the  utmost  importance, 
and  early  in  the  day  the  Berkshire 
or  inside  berth  was  altogether 
out  of  &your,  the  Buckinghamshire 
side  being  in  great  request,  not- 
withstanding that  on  ordinary  oc- 
casions it  is  considered  adveree  in 
a  great  degree  to  the  chances  of 
any  crew  unlucky  enough  to  draw 
it  First  on  the  programme  stood 
the  opening  heat  of  the  Grand 
Challenge  Eights,  for  which  the 
Oifoid  Etonians,  the  Eton  Oollege 
crew,  and  the  Cambridge  Lady 
Margaret,  came  to  the  poet,  to  de- 
cide which  should  do  battle  against 
the  London  Club,  who  last  year 
defeated  the  Eton  'boys'  in  the 
final  struggle  by  half  a  clear  length, 
after  making  the  ftstest  recorded 
time,  viz.,  7  niin.  20  sec.  Kearly 
half  an  hour  was  spent  before  the 
Eights  could  drop  to  their  places, 
the  wind  forcing  their  heads  to 
leeward  as  often  as  they  got  into 
position.  At  last,  when  something 
uke  straight,  the^  were  started,  the 
school  crew,  wiUi  an  extremely 
rapid  stroke,  gradually  assuming 
the  lead,  and  off  Bem^iham  Earm 
they  were  nearly  clear.  After  this 
the  Etonians,  who  had  been  shel- 
tered all  the  way  by  the  foliage  on 
the  Buckinghamshire  shore,  began 
to  creep  up,  and  weight  also  telling 
in  their  favour,  th^  soon  managed 
to  get  on  even  terms,  then  to  draw 
slowly  away,  until  at  Poplar  Point 
th^  were  half  a  length  to  the  good. 
Eton,  however,  had  now  all  the 
best  of  the  water,  and  with  a  migh^ 
effort  tbev  visibly  reduced  their 
opponents  lead;  but  the  Oxford 
crew,  all  tried  oarsmen,  shot  away 
again  when  called  on,  and  finished 
three-quarters  of  a  length  in  ad- 
vance, after  a  splitting  race  all  the 


way.  Lady  MflTgaxet  we  have  not 
mentioned.  Suffice  it  to  say  thsy 
were  never  '  in  the  hunt' 

Next  followed  the  trial  heat  of 
the  Wyfold,  in  which  the  Oscilla- 
tors, a  London  Club  crew,  and 
Stames  came  together.  The  first- 
named  gained  an  easy  victory,  and 
the  contest,  if  contest  it  can  be 
called,  served  to  point  out  the  three 
defective  places  in  the  London 
Eight,  of  which  so  much  had  been 
said.  Next  came  the  first  heat  of 
the  Diamond  Sculls,  and  produced 
the  race  of  the  meeting.  The  ul- 
timate result  had  been  looked  on 
as  a  '  foregone  conclusion'  for  Long 
of  the  London  Club,  the  perform- 
ances of  Crofks,  of  Kingston,  who 
bad  won  the  sculls  in  1867,  and  of 
Tarborough,  an  Oxonian,  and  the 
pretensions  of  Calvert  and  Bun- 
bury,  two  Eton  boys,  being  alike  ig- 
nored. Long  had  been  tned  in  the 
previous  week;  and  notwithstand- 
mg  whispers  that  he  was  scarcely  so 
fast  as  duriog  last  seascm,  his  par- 
tisans never  lost  confidence  or 
ceased  laying  odds  on  him.  The 
Kmgston  man  had  the  benefit  of 
the  station,  and  coming  away  at  a 
criusking  pace,  led  off  Fawley  Court 
by  a  clear  length.  Long  being  ap- 
parently demoralised,  as  he  was 
palpably  sculling  a  slow  stroke, 
and,  worse  than  that,  a  short  stroke. 
His  '  coach,'  however,  who  rode  up 
the  bank  succeeded  at  length  in 
making  his  admonitions  heard,  and 
lying  down  to  the  work  before  him 
in  something  like  his  old  sigrle. 
Long  b^;an  to  hold  his  own  then, 
notwithstanding  that  he  was  re- 
ceiving an  ugly  wash  from  Crofts, 
to  creep  up.  From  this  point  a 
really    memorable   struggle    took 

Slace.  Inch  by  inch  the  Londoner 
rew  on  his  opponent^  and  stoutly 
contested  though  the  race  was, 
neither  gave  signs  of  flagging. 
After  making  the  crossing,  a  foul 
seemed  almost  imminent,  but  Jost 
prior  to  rounding  the  Point,  Long 
used  his  right-hand  scull  strongly, 
and  prohably  lost  himself  the  race 
by  going  outside  Crofts,  instead  of 
hugging  the  shore  as  he  had  evi- 
dently previously  iotended.  Every 
stroke  brought  them  nearer  the 
goal,  and  slowly  but  surely  Long 


Frcm  Bemmtiham  Hand  to  Hmdeg. 


109 


deoraased  the  gap.  Crofts,  how- 
ever, rowed  in  ihoionghly  plaoky 
style  to  the  end ;  and  although  with- 
in twenty  yards  after  passing  the 
judge,  Long  had  got  his  boat's 
nose  in  front,  he  was  behind  at  the 
actual  mooKent  of  passing  the  poet, 
and  lost  a  magnificent  race  by  a 
bare  five  feet,  the  finish  reminding 
ns  of  the  dead  heat  in  1S63  between 
W.  B.  Woodgate  and  E.  D.  Brick- 
wood. 

.  Early  in  the  race  it  seemed  as  if 
Long  was  quite  'taken  aback'  by 
the  rapidity  and  power  of  Crofts' 
sonlling,  but  from  the  half  distance 
he  amply  atoned  for  any  short- 
comings in  this  respect;  and  though 
apparently  incapable  of  a  sport  at 
any  point,  his  lengthy  stroke  told 
in  the  end, and  it  was  his  misfortune 
rather  than  his  fanlt  that  the  few 
feet  which  separated  the  boats  at 
the  finish  should  have  been  against 
him. 

Yarborough  had  almost  a  walk 
over  against  McClintock-Bunhury 
in  the  second  heat  of  the  Senile ;  and 
the  trial  heat  of  the  Town  Cup,  a 
local  race,  ended  in  the  victory  of 
the  Eton  Excelsior  crew;  whilst  in 
the  first  heat  of  the  Ladies'  Plate, 
Lady  Margaret  had  no  difficulty  in 
disposing  of  Radley.  Then  followed 
a  heat  of  the  Stewards'  Fours,  which 
decided  who  should  meet  the  London 
Club,  the  holders,  on  the  second  day. 
Three  crews  contended,  the  Oxford 
Badleians,  the  old  Etonians,  and  a 
Kingston  boat  On  paper  the 
Etonian  crew  seemed  to  have  the 
best  of  i^,  but  as  they  were  all  stale 
after  their  hard  race  against  Eton 
school  for  the  Grand  Challenge 
Eights,  the  'Bads'  were  slightly 
the  favourites  in  some  quarters. 
They  got  a  bad  start  notwithstand- 
ing the  advantages  of  the  Berks 
station,  for  the  wind  had  now  gone 
down,  and  off  Bemenham  Bam 
were  nearly  a  length  to  the  bad,  the 
Etonians  being  in  the  van  with 
Kingston  near  the  centre,  second. 
After  rowing  half  way  the  latter 
had  dropped  astern,  and  the  Bad- 
leians  going  up  to  the  leaders  at 
every  stroke  managed  to  head  them 
at  Poplar  Point  The  previous 
heavy  .work  done  by  the  Etonians 
now  evidbntly  told^  and  after  being 


once  'collared'  they  were  soon 
shaken  off,  the  Badleians  shooting 
forward  and  passing  the  judge  a 
clear  length  ahead.  In  the  race 
for  the  Qoblets  two  pairs  only  started, 
viz.  Long  and  Stout  on  behalf  of 
London,  and  Calvert  and  Bunbury 
for  Eton.  This  was  one  of  the 
'real  morals'  of  the  meeting,  and 
without  being  extended,  the  Lon- 
doners, although  their  opponents 
got  nearly  clear  at  one  time,  won  by 
upwards  of  three  lengths.  This 
ended  the  opening  day's  sport 

On  Thursday  the  deciding  heat  of 
the  Grand  Challenge  was  first  set 
for  decision.  Prior  to  the  regatta 
London  had  been  slight  favourites; 
but  the  mediocre  performance  in 
the  Wyfold  of  three  of  their  men 
set  off  against  the  excellent  rowing 
of  the  old  Etonians,  and  the  £Mt 
that  the  latter  had  drawn  the  Berks 
station,  caused  speculation  to  veer 
round,  and  before  the  start  odds 
were  laid  on  theuL  The  Londonem 
came  out  with  the  lead,  and 
drew  slowly  away  until  off  Fawley 
Court  they  were  two-thirds  of  a 
length  in  advance.  Here  the 
Etonians  began  to  hold  their  own, 
then  to  gain  a  trifle,  and  little  by 
little  to  decrease  the  gap,  until  at 
the  second  barrier  from  the  finish 
the  boats  had  become  strictly  leveL 
The  Londoners,  however,  were  now 
clearly  trapped,  and  all  Gulston's 
gallant  rowing  could  not  save  them, 
as  the  slack  water  under  the  Berk- 
shire shore  gave  Woodhowe  a  great 
advantage,  and  he  rapidly  went 
away  and  won  by  a  clear  length  in 
7  min.  30  sea  The  Wyfold  final  pro- 
duced an  excellent  race  from  ei.d  to 
end  between  those  old  rivals  the 
Oscillators  and  the  Kingston.  Pass^ 
iog  Fawley  Court,  the  Ot<ciIlators 
had  drawn  clear,  and  might  have 
taken  their  opponents'  water,  but 
this  they  refrained  from  doing ;  and 
the  Kingston  having  the  best  of  the 
course  all  the  way  managed,  when 
served  by  the  station,  to  decrease 
their  opponents'  lead  materially. 
They  could  never,  however,  quite 
get  up,  and  were  beaten  by  a  trifle 
over  half  a  length,  after  a  tight 
atruggia  Next  came  the  final  heat 
of  the  Ladies'  Challenge  Plate.  •  The 
Eton  /boys/  who  were  the holdeES, 


110 


Frcm  Bemeniam  hUmi  to  HeHle§. 


had  all  the  Fympathy  of  spectators^ 
and  the  cheeriog  was  especially  en- 
thusiastic as  they  rowed  away  at  the 
start,  were  clear  early  in  the  race,  and 
won  easily  from  the  Lady  Margaret 
by  nearly  half  a  dozen  lengths.  Eton 
Z^celsior  were  indulged  with  a  mild 
canter  against  the  Henley  crew  in  the 
final  heat  of  the  Town  Gup,  and  the 
race  for  a  Presentation  Prize  open  to 
fours  without  cozwains,  the  steering 
being  managed  on  the  American 
principle,  proved  a  rather  hollow 
affair  after  passing  Fawley  Court, 
the  old  Radleians  winning  easily  by 
a  couple  of  lengths  from  the  Osdl- 
lators.  In  the  deciding  heat  of  the 
Diamond  Sculls,  Tarborough  op- 
posed Crofts;  and  although  the 
former  was  known  to  be  a  '  sticker/ 
his  chance  was  hardly  fancied.  He 
steered  badly  after  going  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  and  was  defeated  with 
ease  by  three  or  fonr  lengths.  In 
the  Visitors'  Challenge  Fours,  Lady 
Margaret,  stroked  by  Goldie,  had 
again  to  succumb,  this  time  to  tho 
University  College,  Oxford,  crew, 
in  which  TInn6  made  his  only  ap- 
pearance during  the  two  days. 
University  came  right  through,  and 
won  by  three  lengths.  The  Stewards' 
Fours  brought  another  certainty  for 
the  London  Club,  whose  rowing 
was  in  perfect  unison  and  a  treat 
to  witness,  the  Badleian  crew  being 
a  couple  of  lengths  in  the  rear  at 
the  finish. 

Of  the  eight  open  events  pro- 
ducing  races,  it  will  be  thus  seen 
tliat  the  London  Club  won  two  out 
of  the  five  for  which  they  com* 
peted.  Before  the  regatta  their 
success  in  the  Sculls,  Qoblets,  and 
the  Steward^',  had  been  'put  about' 
as  certain;  while  it  seemed  quite 
probab?e  they  would  continue  to 
hold  the  Grand  Challenge,  and 
perhaps  win  the  Wyfold.  They 
began  badly  by  being  nowhere  in 
the  latter;  and  the  succeeding 
defeat  of  Long  for  the  Sculls  ren- 
dered their  partisans  in  a  not  very 
pleasant  frame  of  mind.  They 
had,  however,  ample  reason  for  en- 
trusting Long  with  their  confi- 
dence; and  had  the  race  to  be 
rowed  again,  we  should  look  to  him 
to  prodoce  the  victor,  althongh 
Crofts  is  both  fast  and  a  'stayer.' 


Probably  the  real  reason  of  Long's 
defeat  is  that  he  was  overworked. 
Had  he  contented  himself  with 
training  for  two  or  even  for  three 
races  he  must  have  come  to  the  post 
in  far  different  condition.  But  it  is 
too  much  to  expect  of  natnretbat  it 
will  not  feel  strained  by  the  large 
amount  of  rowing  and  sculling 
entailed  by  practice  in  an  eight,  a 
four,  a  pair,  and  a  sculling  boat 
Several  others  of  the  London  men  also 
looked  pale  and  worn ;  and,  indeed, 
had  the  weak  points  in  the  Eight  been 
looked  to  earlier,  we  should  have 
anticipated  a  different  result  from 
that  of  the  Grand  Challenga  In 
the  Stewards'  and  the  Goblets,  they 
proved  immeasurably  superior  to 
their  opponents ;  but  the  foar  who 
represented  the  club  in  the  Wyfold 
had  not  the  slightest  pretensions. 
The  victory  of  the  Oxford  Etonians 
over  the  holdera  in  the  Grand 
Challenge  was  hailed  with  great 
glee  by  University  men;  and  to 
some  extent  atoned  for  their  defeat 
in  the  trial  heat  of  the  Stewards' 
by  the  old  Badleian  crew  on  the 
previous  day.  The  Londonera 
showed  the  latter  bat  little  con- 
sideration in  the  final ;  and,  as  we 
saw  on  the  following  Saturday  at 
Pangbonme,  clearly  proved  them- 
selves ponnds  better  than  the 
Etonian  crew  into  the  bargain. 
Lady  Margaret  deserve  every 
credit  for  entering;  and  it  is  a  great 
pity  they  were  not  successful,  in 
one  race  at  least.  Eton  School 
sent,  as  they  always  do  send,  a  fine 
orew  to  the  post;  and  although 
the  'boys'  suffered  defeat  in  the 
Grand  Challenge  they  were  re- 
warded with  victory  in  the  race  for 
the  Ladies'  Plate.  The  final  heat  of 
the  Wyfoid  between  those  ancient 
enemies  the  Of  cillaton  and  Kingston 
was  one  of  the  best  races  of  the  meet- 
ing, and,  although  the  former  won, 
both  crews  showed  the  utmost  game- 
ness.  The  Oscillators,  however,  had 
in  turn  to  submit  to  the  superior 
prowess  of  the  Old  Radleians  in  the 
race  without  coxswains ;  while,  for  the 
Visitora'  Challenge  Cap,  Univeraity 
Coll.  (Oxford)  literally  walked  away 
from  the  Cambiidge  crew,  as  did 
Eton  Excelsior  from  all  opponents 
in  the  Town  Cap. 


IVcm  Bemenham  Island  to  Henley. 


Ill 


MesnB.  G60.  Morrigon  and  A.  P. 
Lonsdale  had  the  screw  steam- 
yacht  Ariel,  belonging  to  Mr.  BIyth, 
of  Maidenhead,  placed  at  their  dis- 
poeal,  thus  dispensing  with  the 
necessity  of  eight- oared  cnttera. 
The  watermen  who  have  been  pre- 
Tioufily  employed  were  naturally  in 
bgh  dudgeon  at  losing  the  couple 
of  daj  s'  work ;  but  they,  like  other 
people,  mu£t  learn  sooner  or  later 
that  improyement  will  assume  its 
sway. 

The  amusements  were  yaried  on 
the  second  day  by  the  'ducking' 
of  a  Welsher,  who  had  with  native 
impudence  taken  up  his  stand  behind 
the  Lion  Gaiden.  He  made  him- 
self particularly  offensive  from  the 
first ;  and  as  the  racing  progressed, 
and  a  little  money  was  entrusted 
to  him  on  a  contingency,  gradually 
became  more  unruly,  refusing  at 
length  to  refund  even  the  amount 
staked  by  a  winner.  Unwary  man, 
what  had  he  done?  Verily  a 
bomet*s  ne^t  was  gathering  about 
his  ears.  The  law,  in  the  form  of 
a  rural '  blue,'  was  appealed  to,  but 
he  declared  himself  utterly  power- 
less; and  there  was  apparently  nought 
left  for  the  backer  but  to  '  grin  and 
bear  it.'  On  the  bridge,  howeyer, 
a  solemn  conclave  was  held  the 
same  night,  and,  after  '  sweet  con- 
verse/ a  little  plan  was  laid,  in  the 
event  of  the  reappearance  of  the 
defaulter  on  the  morrow.  He  ui^ 
blushingly  came  again,  and  others 
beside  him,  and  they  partook 
heartily  of  strong  waters  and  smoked 
bad  cigars,  and  rudely  chaffed  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  men 
who  leaned  half  out  of  the  neigh- 
bouring windows.  Better  had  they 
gone  awf^  while  there  was  yet 


time;  better  still  had  they  never 
come !  The  Nemesis  was  at  hand. 
A  mild-looking  undergraduate  took 
long  odds  to  a  '  skiv,'  so  long,  in  fact, 
that  it  was  almost  certain  he  would 
not  be  paid  if  he  won,  and  went 
away.  His  star  was  in  the  ascend- 
ant ;  the  crow  of  his  choice  came  in 
first,  and  he  applied  for  his  win- 
nings. Of  course  he  did  not  get 
them,  but  in  lieu  was  met  with 
horrible  imprecations,  and  told  that 
the  firm  he  had  wagered  with 
was  bankrupt.  In  vain  he  expos- 
tulated, and  mentioned  that  it 
would  be  better  for  all  parties  con- 
cerned that  he  should  be  paid. 
But  no;  his  debtor  was  obdurate; 
the  money  was  not  forthcQming. 
Then  the  mild  graduate  faced  his 
friends,  and  gave  the  signal.  A 
dozen  strong  arms  seized  the 
Welsher,  and  he  was  boroe  in  the 
direction  of  the  towing-pump.  That 
venerable  institution,  however,  re- 
fusing its  offices,  the  proximity  of 
the  Thames  was  suggested,  and 
'  To  the  bankl'  was  the  ctj.  The 
yokels,  who  had  gathered  m  large 
numbers,  enjoyed  the  fun  amazingly, 
and  fot  a  trifling  douceur  dropped 
the  offended  off  the  embankment, 
and  afterwards  put  him  well  under 
the  broad  waters  of  Father  Thames 
three  or  four  times.  Then  he  stood 
up  and  wept  passionate  tears,  and 
was  in  due  time  left  to  go  on  his 
way  a  wetter,  and,  we  trust,  a  wiser 
man.  Probably  after  this  lesson 
we  shall  hear  of  no  more  '  Welshers 
at  Henley.'  It  were  better  if  the 
Government  could  deal  with  such 
rascals;  but,  as  it  refuses,  it  is  hard 
indeed  if  the  public  are  to  be 
robbed  and  the  thieves  escape  in 
the  open  day  entirely  scot-free. 

H.  B. 


112 


SKETCHES  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 

HO.  L — THB  TBORT  TBSASDBX  BX2R3S. 


I  ENOW  of  hardly  any  more  plea- 
sant and  intellectaal  eojoyment 
than  attending  the  dehates  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  when  the  Wi^* 
ingisfcoodand  partyspurit  runs  high. 
I  woald  exhort  those  who  aie  tired  of 
the  Opera,  and  jet  want  some  intel- 
lectaal excitement,  to  finequent  the 
House.  It  is  much  livelier  than  the 
Boyal  Institution,  and  much  more 
interesting  than  those  monotonous 
law-courts,  which  hare  only  an  oc- 
casional interest^  and  for  which  there 
now  seems  a  steady  distaste.  There 
are  different  ways  of  getting  into  the 
House.  Of  course  the  royal  way  is  to 
turn  aside*  half-way  up  the  hall,  and 
go  through  the  door  under  the  tall 
Uunp,  reeerred  for  memhers  and 
guarded  by  a  policeman.  The  sim- 
plest and  most  obvious  course  for 
outsiders  is  to  get  a  member's  order. 
But  after  you  have  got  your  order, 
you  don't  know  what  your  order 
may  get  you ;  perhaps  the  chance  of 
ballotmg  for  your  place  amongst 
the  hundreds  who  cannot  be  ad- 
mitted. You  wish  you  were  a  West- 
minster boy,  with  a  prescriptive 
right  to  a  place,— which  has  proved 
such  a  stimulus  to  many  of  them. 
Perhaps  you  get  in  under  the 
Speaker's  private  gallery.  Better 
still :  perhaps  the  Speaker  may  be 
influenced  by  some  member  to  put 
you  in  'under  the  gallery/  where 
you  are  on  the  floor  of  the  Houfe, 
and  as  well  off  as  if  you  were  a 
member.  If  you  happen  to  belong 
to  the  press,  yon  are  much  better  off 
than  most  members.  The  daily 
papers  are  treated  most  liberally 
with  little  square  cards  of  admis- 
sion ;  one  for  the  reporter,  one  for 
the  editor,  and  one  for  the  leader- 
writer;  not  to  mention  that  they 
have  a  snug  room  all  to  themselves, 
in  the  rear.  The  ladif  s  are  worse 
treated  of  all  behind  their  grating. 
But  although  theHouse  chivalrously 
cheers  every  proposition  to  remove 
it,  there  is  a  dexterous  count  out 
when  the  question  comes  forward  in 
a  practical  shape.  A  lady  once  vin- 
dictively took  a  baby  behind  that 


objectionable  grating,  whose  shrill 
scream  might  remind  the  House  of 
more  than  one  honourable  member. 
The  true  remedy  would  be  that  a 
'  person'  like  Miss  Becker,  or  Miss 
Sneddon,  or  Dr.  Mary  Walker  should 
have  a  seat  in  the  House,  to 
avenge  the  wrongs  of  the  trampled 
sex.  Or  suppose  we  displaced  the 
ftont  Tressui^  Bench,  and  allowed 
two  dozen  ladies  to  have  seats  in  the 
House,  just  as  some  two  doEen 
bishops  represent  in  the  Lords  the 
vast  body  of  the  clergy.  By  the 
way,  the  bishops,  in  their  billowy 
lawn,  in  their  quarter  of  the  House 
of  Lords,  attacked  so  ruthlessly  by 
Badicals  on  the  Irish  Church  Bill, 
reminded  me  very  much  of  Land- 
seer's  picture  in  the  Academy  this 
year,  the  'Swannery  invaded  by 
Sea  Eagles.' 

The  House  of  Commons  has  more 
and  more  been  becoming  a  place  of 
fashionable  recreation  —  for  those 
who  can  get  there ;  and  one  rather  re- 
grets the  old  simple  system  of  a  half- 
crown  to  the  doorkeeper.  A  friend 
of  mine  strolled  to  the  House  of 
Commons  one  evening,  and,  finding 
no  doorkeeper  at  the  door,  in  the 
calmest  manner  possible  he  walked 
into  the  body  of  the  room  and  took 
his  seat  among  the  membera.  I 
believe  he  stayed  there  undetected 
for  an  hour.  He  had  not  even  the 
countryman's  poor  excuse  of  igno- 
rance. It  was  a  bit  of  bravado,  a 
repetition  of  which  might  be  at- 
tended with  very  awkward  conse- 
quences. It  is  to  be  hoped,  for  the 
Mike  both  of  members  and  of  vi- 
sitors, that  the  plan  fur  a  new  House, 
by  taking  in  a  quadrangle,  may  be 
carried  out.  Beyond  the  sacted 
seats  reserved  for  the  ministers,  and 
other  leaders,  there  is,  on  a  field- 
night,  almost  as  great  a  cmsh  to 
^  into  the  House  it»elf  as  to  get 
m,  or  under  the  gallery.  A  very 
good  thing  is  told  of  a  man  named 
Fergupson,  in  the  great  Reform  de- 
bates of  183a.  All  members  were 
then  naturally  anxious  to  get  good 
places,  which  could  then  only  be 


Sketches  in  the  Eouee  of  (hmmom. 


118 


done  by  labelling  iheir  places  with 
their  names.    Fergnsson  went  down 
one'  morning   so   early   as   seven 
o'clock,  thus  to  secure  bis  place, 
that  being  the  boor  at  which  the 
servants  cleaned  the  place.    To  bis 
great  surprise,  he  found  that  the 
debate,  which  be  bad  left  a  little 
after  midnight,  was  still  going  on, 
the  feeling  of  tiie  House  haviog  be- 
oome  general  in  favour  of  a  division. 
Fergusson  was  just  in  time  to  vote, 
and  obtained  immense  credit  with 
bis  oonstituentB   for    having    sat 
through  the  live-long  night  in  his 
zeal  for  the  cause  of  Reform.  How- 
ever,  a  grand  field-night  at   the 
Commons  is  very  well  worth  sitting 
through.    It  is  not,  indeed,  so  good 
as  the  Lords.  The  scene  is  infinitely 
less  imposing,  and  the  debating  is 
not  so  good  by  any  means.   When 
the  Lords  have  a  grand  debate  they 
do  it  grandly.    They  will  not  tole- 
rate any  second-rate  speaking,  ex- 
cept when  listenmg  to  some  man 
who  has  large  claims  to  be  heard ; 
whereas,  in  the  other  House  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  twaddle  tailed 
in   the  dinner   hour,  and  at  all 
times  really  good  speaking  in  the 
Commons    forms    tne    exception, 
while  in  the  Lords  it  rather  forms 
the  rule.  As  for  the  Commons,  they 
rush  in  and  out  of  the  House  like 
rabbits  in  a  warren,  if  I  may  quote  an 
irreverent  similitude,  and  at  dinner 
time,  if  a  man  persists  in  addressing 
them,  the  House  has  been  likened 
to  a  great  hungry  beast,  that  will 
ftet^  and  roar,  and  threaten  to  de- 
vour. Then  what  an  unseemly  m^ 
comes  off  at  the  last  I    Plato  used 
to  say  that  the  Sophists  studied  the 
humours  of  society  as  one  might 
study  the  temper  of  a  wild  beast 
And  yet  the  House  is  very  good- 
humoured  and  manageable.     If  a 
man  gives  a  significant  glance  at 
the  clock,  a  silent  contract  is  made, 
and  it  is  understood  that  the  mem- 
ber has  really  something  to  say  and 
will  not  be  long  in  saying  it    The 
great  hero  of  the  day  just  now  is,  of 
course,  Mr.  Gladstona    One  ought 
to  see  him  on  such  an  occasion  as 
when  he  came  down  the  other  night 
from  a  party  at  Marlborongh  House 
in  breeches  and  black  siik  stockings 
and  shoes  with  buckles.    Only  the 

VOL.  XVL— NO.  XCII. 


powdered  hair  and  the  pigtail  were 
wanting,  and  the  old  days  of  George 
III.  would  seem  revived,  and  '  the 
People's  William '  might  be  a  living 
resemblance  of  that  great  statesman 
whom  his  friends  called  '  Sweet 
William/  and  his  enemies '  the  bot- 
tomless Pitt' 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  in  the 
present  day  the  study  of  the  Debates 
m  Parliament  gives  the  most  valu- 
able of  all  the  literature  that  deals 
with  the  wide  domain  of  politics. 
The  newspaper  press,  which  claims, 
with  some  show  of  reason,  to  be  the 
Fourth  Estate,  cazmot,  to  our  mind, 
for  a  momeot  compiure  with  the 
parliamentary  discussion  on  which 
newspaper  discussion  is  substan- 
tially based.  I  imagine  that  news- 
paper articles  are  deteriorating,  and 
parliamentary  speeches  are  improv- 
ing. A  newspaper  article  is  good 
for  the  constituency  of  that  news- 
paper alone;  whereas  a  parliamen- 
ta^  speech  holds  good  for  all  news- 
papers and  all  constituencies.  Asa 
matter  of  fetct,  writing  is  a  more 
careful  and  deliberate  process  than 
speaking;  but  somehow  tiie  two 
oystems  have  changed  places.  We 
have  now  an  immense  quantity  of 
prepared  speeches  and  of  extempo- 
rary writing.  The  parliamentarv 
rker  knows  that  he  has  to  ad- 
s  an  illimitable  audience,  under 
all  the  responsibility  that  attaches 
to  the  fullest  publicity  that  attends 
his  words  and  votes.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  the  speaker  is  under 
every  inducement  to  do  Mb  best; 
and  a  literary  article  is  rarely  com- 
posed with  that  amount  of  study, 
and  thought,  and  effort  which  is 
frequently  lavished  upon  the  prepa- 
ration of  a  parliamentary  speech. 
When  you  nave  read  through  a 
parliamentary  debate,  and  then  turn 
to  the  leading  article  on  it,  you  per- 
ceive at  once  that  you  have  passed 
from  an  exhaustive  discussion  to  a 
thin  and  superficial  comment  on  it 
No  one  speaker  has  brought  out 
the  whole  truth,  but  the  whole 
truth  has  been  brought  out  in 
the  course  of  the  debate.  In 
making  a  comparison  between  the 
debating  power  of  the  two  Houses, 
I  was  speaking  of  the  absolute  and 
not  the  relative  proportion.  The 
I 


114 


Sketches  in  the  Hou$e  of  Ckmmom, 


Lords  hardly  manage  an  adjonnied 
debate  more  than  onoe  in  a  year  or 
two.  But  the  stream  of  debate  in 
the  Lower  House  is  fall  and  conti- 
nuous; they  have  more  speakers 
and  more  speeches,  and  the  absolute 
amount  of  very  good  parley  im- 
meajBurably  transcends,  as  a  whole 
and  in  amount,  that  talked  in  the 
Lords.  In  a4justing  the  ooostitu- 
tional  question  of  the  relations  be- 
tween the  Houses,  which  has  be^ 
BO  much  discussed  this  season,  it 
ought  to  be  recollected— an  argu- 
ment which  I  have  not  seen  dis- 
cussed—that the  Peers,  although 
they  are  supposed  to  hold  aloof  from 
politics,  did  virtually  exert  their 
I)oliticaI  strength  in  the  late  elec- 
tions in  the  persons  of  their  friends 
and  relatives,' and  so  they  were  vir- 
tually included  in  the  general  mi- 
nority. 

Mr.  Gladstone  has  certainly  aged 
during  the  last  few  years.  His  hair 
is  whiter,  his  countenance  more 
wan.  But  he  is  in  office;  and  to 
him  office  is  happiness.  Since  he 
has  been  Premier  his  temper  has 
been  particularly  good.  He  has 
only  been  in  a  passion  once.  He 
showed,  for  instance,  to  great  ad- 
vantage when  Colonel  North  rose  to 
put  a  badgering  question  about  Mr. 
jBright  in  the  Commons,  the  same 
night  that  Lord  Gainis  made  a 
badgering  speech  on  the  same  sub- 
ject in  the  Lords.  Lord  Gran- 
ville knows  the  House  of  Lords 
thoroughly,  and  can  play  upon  its 
every  chord  as  upon  a  musical  in- 
strument; but  he  is  no  match  in 
eloquence  for  the  hard-headed, 
clear-voiced  Cairns,  especially  when 
the  feeling  of  the  House  was  set  in 
such  a  determined  hostility  against 
the  horrible  Bright.  Lord  Gran- 
ville, in  substance,  only  said  that 
John  Bright  was  a  John  Bull ;  but 
perhaps  Bull  was  not  so  good  a 
name  as  Bully.  But  with  Mr.  Glad- 
stone there  was  no  competition  of 
oratory.  Colonel  North  put  his  ques- 
tion, and  seemed  rather  frightened 
at  putting  it,  like  a  nervous  man 
shutting  his  eyes  when  he  is  going 
to  fire— «  frequent  predicament  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  The  putting 
of  this  question  illustrated  that  in- 
tense love  of  personalities  in  which 


the  House  of  Commons  habitually 
indulges.  A  debate  on  India  has 
never  the  interest  which  belongs 
to  some  personal  imputation.  Al- 
though the  Lords  were  hearing 
Cairns,  and  just  about  to  hear  Lord 
Derby,  the  Commons'  House  was 
full  almost  to  overflowing,  and  the 
Speaker  made  a  great  favour  of 
putting  me  under  the  gallery — the 
much  coveted  space  which  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  House  have  caused 
so  greatly  to  be  curtailed  this  season. 
Gladstone  slip j ted  in  by  the  door 
behind  the  Speaker's  chair,  as  is  his 
wont  He  vouchsafe*!  no  greeting 
that  I  saw  to  any  other  member 
than  John  Bright  He  took  the 
question  in  as  pleasant  a  way  as 
Lord  Palmerston  himiielf  could  have 
don&  Bir.  Bright  bad  steadily  re- 
fused to  agitate  the  country  while 
the  Irish  Church  Bill  was  under 
discussion  by  the  House  of  Lords. 
He  himself  had  written  a  letter  not 
unlike  Mr.  Bright's;  but,  to  his 
mortification,  it  was  only  printed  in 
small  type,  and  had  not  received 
any  particular  attention.  The  little 
speech  was  very  soon  over— some 
seven  or  eight  minutes— and  then 
the  House  was,  so  to  speak,  at  a 
single  gulp,  quite  emptied. 

And  now  let  us  rapidly  run 
through  the  occupants  of  that  front 
Treasury  Bench,  and  in  separate 
instances  we  will  go  more  into  de< 
tail  afterwards.  Of  Mr.  Gladstone 
we  have  recently  spoken  at  such 
length  in  these  pages,  that  we  shall 
content  ourselves  with  merely  some 
incidental  mention.*  The  great 
Triumvirate  of  that  Bench  is  made 
up  of  those  three  masterly  orators, 
Gladstone,  Bright,  and  Low&  That 
is  their  proper  order  in  oral  elo- 
quence; but  in  written  eloquence 
the  order  would  be  Lowe,  Bright, 
and  Gladstone.  Despite  their  im- 
mense preponderance  of  ability, 
these  men  are  as  little  liked,  and 
more  abused  than  any  in  the  House. 
The  policy  of  the  Tories  towards 
the  Treasury  Bench  is  the  foimer 
policy  of  the  Italians  towards  Italy. 
Italy  was  an  artiohoka,  to  be  eatun 
leaf  by  leat  The  Treasury  Bench 
is  to   be  devoured  man  by  man. 

*  See  Paper  on  Mi*.  GUdstOQe  in  our 
FebruaiT  Number. 


Sketches  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


115 


There  are  do  men  towards  whom 
feelings  of  a  livelier  animosity  exists 
even  on  both  sides  of  the  Honse, 
than  towards  the  Triumvirate.  It 
is  a  standing  wonder  how  Mr.  Bright 
and  Mr.  Lowe  can  belong  to  the 
same  Cabinet;  and  some  men  say 
that  the  wonder  cannot  last  very 
much  longer.  There  is  a  feeling  of 
nndisguised  hostility  towards  Mr. 
Lowe  in  every  direction,  which  his 
manner  does  so  much  to  intensify 
and  so  little  to  disarm.  Mr.  Lowe's 
Budget  speech,  which  was  expected 
to  be  a  failure,  turned  out  a  success ; 
but  his  set  Irish  speech,  which  was 
expected  to  be  a  success,  was  a  de- 
cided failure.  Once  before  the  Tories 
succeeded  in  hunting  him  from 
ofiSoe,  although  there  was  really  no 
solid  pretence  for  the  procedure  that 
drove  him  into  an  involuntary  resig- 
nation. It  is  quit«  on  the  cards, 
even  if  the  boasted  majority  does 
not  dwindle  down,  that  Mmisters 
may  be  beaten  in  detail,  and  that 
Mr.  Lowe  may  be  the  earliest  victim. 
There  have  already  been  rumours 
that  Mr.  Bright  has  proffered  his 
resignation  to  the  Cabinet  We 
have  no  confidence  in  such  rumours 
ourselves,  but  they  are  certainly  not 
without  significance. 

There  ia  never  any  mistaking 
Mr.  Lowe.  He  is  an  Albino,  and 
the  mobt  near-sighted  of  men;  so 
near- sighted,  indeed,  that  the  story 
ffoes  that  this  was  the  ecclesiasticed 
blemish  that  prevented  his  obtain- 
ing ordination  at  Oxford.  He  will 
there  be  long  remembered  as  a 
private  tutor  with  an  enormous 
amount  of  business;  and  he  can- 
didly told  the  Oxford  University 
Conunissioners  that  he  took  more 

Eupils  than  was  good  either  for 
imaelf  or  for  them.  Seeing  the 
avenues  to  distinction  so  crowded 
as  to  be  virtually  closed,  Mr.  Lowe, 
the  same  year  that  he  was  called  to 
the  bar,  went  out  to  Australia  to 
practise,  and  there  obtained  a  large 
share  both  of  barristerial  and  sena- 
torial renown.  When,  after  eight 
years,  he  returned  to  England  and 
sent  a  clever  leader  to  the  '  Times,' 
the  sagacious  conductors  of  the 
Jupiter  at  once  perceived  the  ^:eat 
value  of  their  ally,  and  retained 
him  to  write  as  many  leaders  as  he 


chose.  He  was  certainly  Inkier 
than  one  man  of  whom  we  have 
heard,  who  had  to  proffit  thirty 
or  forty  leaders  before  he  coold 
get  one  accepted,  and  settled  down 
steadily  into  the  staff.  Lu^^ier 
also  than  another  and  very  eminent 
man,  who,  chagrined  that  his  article 
was  altered,  rejected  himself,  and 
could  never  obtain  his  restoration. 
Luckier  still  than  another,  who  was 
curtly  informed  that  he  was '  wrote 
out'  We  have  heard  marveUons 
anecdotes  of  the  extraordinary  fa- 
cility with  which  Mr.  Lowe  oonki 
fling  off  the  happiest  leaden  for 
the '  Times.' 

With  his  usual  happinesa  in  the 
attainment  of  his  means,  he  was 
speedily  elected  for  Eiddenninster. 
When  he  first  rose  to  address  the 
House,  apparently  a  silvery  octo- 
genarian, but  in  reality  having 
hardly  closed  his  eighth  lustrum, 
a  murmur  of  'The  Times,  the 
Times,'  went  round,  but  he  was 
listened  to  with  the  greatest  at- 
tention. He  fully  vindieated  his 
Australian  reputation  and  the  fame 
of  the  great  journal  with  whidi  he 
was  connected.  It  was  a  success  as 
easy  as  it  was  brilliant  He  had  a 
pitUess  force  of  argument— the  chain 
of  argument  being  as  complete  as  a 
demonstration  of  £uclid's--and  a 
manner  perfectly  self-possessed.  In 
this  same  first  year  of  parliamentary 
life  he  climbed  the  first  rung  of 
the  official  ladder.  He  was  kept 
on  the  intermediate  rungs  too  long 
before  he  climbed  towards  tiie  top. 
Had  he  been  an  aristocrat  he  would 
have  been  included  in  Lord  Palmer- 
ston's  intensely  aristocratio  Cabinet ; 
as  it  is,  he  must  have  endured  some 
mortification  in  seeing  inferior  men 
passing  over  his  head.  Butheknew 
his  strength  and  could  bide  his 
time,  feeling  sure  that  the  occasion 
would  come,  and  that  tiie  man 
would  be  equal  to  the  hour. 

The  occa43ion  came.  Mr.  Lowe, 
in  the  mean  time,  had  parted  with 
his  seat  at  Kidderminster,  being 
shamefully  maltreated  by  the  roughs 
— Mr.  Bright  has  said  that  he  never 
has  forgiven  his  broken  head  there 
—and  now  enjoyed  that  snug  seat 
for  Calne  which  had  once  given 
Maoanlay  an  entrance  into  FarUa- 

I   2 


-   I 


116 


SkeUheg  m  ike  Heme  cf  Oommcm. 


mentary  Ufa  He  had  vigoroiisly 
opposed  Mr.  Locke  King's  bill  for 
lowering  the  suffrage,  and  he  conld 
with  perfect  consistency  oppose  the 
single-barrelled  bill  of  the  Rnssell- 
Gladstone  ministry.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  Mr.  Lowe's 
speeches  fonned  the  great  feature 
of  those  memorable  debates  of  1866, 
to  which  most  be  added  his  one 
at  oration  of  the  following  year. 
Disraeli,  by  his  laminona 
speeches,  certeinly  proved  that  he 
thoroughly  understood  the  whole 
Reform  question  best  of  all  living 
men;  and  the  lightning  of  Mr. 
Gladstone's  eloquence  nerer  flashed 
more  yiyidiy  thim  in  his  celebrated 
reply;  and  Mr.  Bright  presented 
his  extraordinary  nmon  of  Saxon 
eloquence  and  genuine  humour;  and 
Mr.  Hardy's  yehement  force  was 
applauded  to  the  echo  by  his  party ; 
and  there  were  many  others  on 
whom  one  might  dwell  with  more 
or  less  emphasis  of  praise.  But,  to 
our  mind,  the  series  of  Mr.  Lowe's 
speeches  formed  essentially  the 
crowDing  ornaments  of  those  great 
debates.  The  fancy,  the  vigour,  the 
antithesis,  the  epigram,  the  irony 
and  wit,  the  energetic  force,  the 
strength  and  subtlety,  the  scholar- 
ship, the  genius,  took  the  House 
and  the  country  by  storm:  they  are 
the  Philippics  of  British  oratory; 
and,  looking  through  the  arid  wilder- 
ness of  Hansard,  there  is  no  oaeds 
where  the  mind  and  memory  linger 
so  gratefully,  which  at  the  preseQt 
day  are  as  replete  with  interest  and 
instruction  as  when  they  were  de- 
livered in  the  vast  excited  audience 
of  Parliament,  and  thrown  broad- 
cast over  the  world.  As  he  picks 
his  way  down  to  Westminster  with 
rapid,  quiet  steps,  the  eyes  blinking, 
the  lips  moving,  he  is  construct- 
ing those  terse,  pointed  sentences 
which  will  arouse  an  incessant  storm 
of  laughter  and  applausa  The  ha- 
bitual expression  of  his  &oe  has 
been  defined  as  a  mixture  between 
a  sneer  and  a  giggrle;  and  it  is  a 
joke  against  him  that  when  other 
members  devour  oranges  in  the 
House  he  prefers  lemons.  Mr.  Lowe 
is  popularly  said  to  be  a  man  with- 
out a  heart,  or,  rather,  one  whose 
heart  is  a  mere  bit  of  muscular 


tissue.     Admiring  his    g;eiiins  a\ 
moral  courage,  I  much   regret    \\ 
unpopularity,  which  it  is  not  wfi 
for  lum  almost  to  court  as  he  don 
Most  people  felt  a  little  jubilatio 
when  they  saw  the  stately  maniK; 
in  which  Mr.  Disraeli — to  whom  M\ 
"Lowe  is  always  a  bete  noir — admi 
nistered  a  rebuke  to  him  the  othej 
day  at  the  Trinity  Honse   dinner 
It  is   impossible   in  this    connto 
that  any  man  should  OTer  make  hiis 
mark  as  a  popular  statesman  with- 
out being  a  man  capable  of  gennino 
sympathy.    It  is  much  to  be  in- 
tensely clever;  but  intense  clever- 
ness alone  never  moved  the  national 
heart.    To  all  outward  seeming  Mr. 
Lowe  is  incapable  of  sympathy.    It 
is  said  that  his  manner  of  receiving 
a  deputation  is  becoming  a  standard 
joke.    He  goes  on  reading  his  cor- 
respondence— which  is  so  immense 
that  it  must  necessarily  leave  him 
very  little  leisure— holdins  the  pa- 
pers close  to  his  eye ;  and  if  he  is 
asked  a  question  his  answer  invari- 
ably is, '  I  don't  know.    I  shouldn't 
tell  you  if  I  did.    It  is  very  wrong 
of  you  to  ask  the  question.'     The 
other  day  a  deputation,  consisting 
of  managers  and  clerks  of  savings- 
banks,  came  to  him,  pointing  out 
that  their  vocation  may  soon  be  gone, 
that  those  institutions  would  cease 
to  exist     'And  why  should  they 
exist?'  asked  Mr.  Lowe.  The  answer 
was  worthy  of  Cardinal  Richelieu. 
When   a  poor  man  pleaded  that 
'a  man  must  live,'  '  Je  ne  vois  pas 
la  necessity/  said  the  Cardinal 

Mr.  Bright  ought,  at  least,  to  re- 
ceive a  chapter  to  himself;  and  it  is 
only  in  a  very  partial  way  that  we 
can  deal  with  him  now.    Take  him 
for  all  in  all,  he  is  perhaps  the 
greatest  orator  that  England  pos- 
sesses.   Members  of  the  Honse  will 
say — perhaps  even  the  most  esoteric 
Gladstonites—that  they  would  rather 
hear  Bright  than  any  other  living 
speaker.    As  a  parliaiuentary  orator 
Mr.  Gladstone  is,  we  think,  fully  his 
equal.    But  then  Mr.  Gladstone  \& 
at   home   on   the   front  Treasary 
bench  as  he  is  at  home  nowhere 
else.   So  to  speak,  he  is  there  on  his 
native  heath.    However  effective  he 
may  be  at  times  when  lecturing,  or 
on  the  stump,  it  is  in  Parliament 


Sketchei  in  Ae  House  of  Commons. 


117 


that  he  shows  to  the  greatest  ad- 
Tantage  and  is  most  thoroughly  at 
home.    Bat  Mr.  Bright  is  most  at 
home  when  he  sees  six  thousand 
people  before  him ;  and  he  buttons 
up  nis  coat,  and  has  a  look  in  his 
eye  which   means  mischief.     Mr. 
Bright  is  emphatically  the  Tribune 
of  the  People.    He  is  a  bom  orator^ 
an  orator,  moreover,  who  has  im- 
proved his  vast  natural  powers  by 
mtense  oultiyation.     Naturally  he 
speaks  the  purest  and  most  nervous 
Saxon;  but  when  he  was  laid  aside 
by  bronchitis  he  evidently  applied 
himself  most  assiduously  to   the 
study  of  literature,  and  then  was 
added  to  his  style  a  delicaqy,  a  ripe- 
ness, a  fulness,  which  that  sl^le 
had  not  previously  possessed  in  so 
ample  a  d^ree.    We  do  not  know 
the  process  of  alchemy  with  which 
Mr.  Bright  constructs  those  won- 
deriul  speeches.  M^e  have  been  told 
that  he  learns  them  off  by  heart 
We  should  find  great  difficulty  in 
believing  this;   but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is,  at  least,  quite  clear  that 
large  sections  of  them  have  been 
carefully  prepared,  and  that  sen- 
tences constructed  with  such  con- 
summate art  cannot  have  been  the 
result  of  the  inspiration  of  the  mo- 
ment   Mr.  Bright  also  conciliates 
hearty  sympathy  from  the  fact  that 
he  has  won  his  way  to  his  lofty  emi- 
nence by  the  sheer  stress  and  force 
of  genius.     Altogether  there  is  no 
man  who  has  taken  his  seat  on  the 
Treasury  bench  who  so  entirely  re- 
tains  his   individuality  and  inde- 
pendence.   We  have  heard  a  touch- 
mg  story,  that  when  Mr.  Jobn  Bright, 
cotton-spinner  and  manufacturer,  of 
Bochdale,  was  a  widower,  sunk  in 
grief  by  the  loss  of  his  youog  wife, 
he  was  sought  out  by  his  acquaint- 
ance, the  late  Mr.  Cobden,  who,  as 
an  anodyne  to  his  sorrow,  besought 
him  to  join  with  him,  heart  and 
soul,  in  his  crusade  against  the 
Corn  Laws.     Cobden  and  Bright, 
the  calico-printer  and  the  cotton- 
spinner,  became  household  names  in 
England,  and  a  power  in  the  State. 
When  the  Anti-Gom-Law  League 
was  transferred  from  Manchester  to 
London  they  emerged  from  a  pro- 
vincial to  a  national  celebrity.    At 
a  meeting  at  the  Grown  and  Anchor, 


in  the  Strand,  in  1842,  Mr.  Bright 
made  the  first  of  those  great  speeches 
which  have  expanded  into  volumes, 
which  furmsh  us  almost  with  the 
highest  extant  examples  of  British 
oratory.  It  was  in  the  same  year 
that  Mr.  Bright,  as  the  member  of  a 
deputation,  waited  on  the  President 
and  Yice-PrcBident  of  the  Board  of 
Trade,  at  that  time  being  the  Earl 
of  Ripon  and  Mr.  Gladstone.  Then, 
for  tne  first  time,  they  met  &oe  to 
£ice.  Did  any  prescient  flash  tell 
the  two  men  of  the  sympathy  and 
intimacy  that  should  hereafter  arise 
between  them?  The  kaleidoscope 
has  wrought  its  changes,  and  Mr. 
Bright  is  now  President  of  the 
BouxL  of  Trade,  and  the  young 
Vice-President  has  become  Prime 
Minister.  It  was  in  1843  that  he 
sat  in  Parliament  as  member  for 
DurhaoL  Four  years  later  he  was 
member  for  Manchester,  as  a  col- 
league of  Mr.  Mihier  Gibson.  For 
ten  years  he  continued  to  represent 
Manchester,  until  he  was  ejected  in 
1857,  in  that  general  election  which 
supported  Lord  Palmerston  with  so 
full  a  tide  of  popular  enthusiasm. 
Mr.  Bright  had  rendered  lus  name 
synonymous  with  the  Peace-at-any- 
price  theory — a  theory  which  the 
nation  indignantly  repudiated.  He 
has  maintained  the  peace  doctrine 
with  the  utmost  courage  and  force, 
and  in  the  teeth  of  the  most  violent 
storm  of  opposition.  On  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Crimean  war  he  placed 
himself  in  antn^^onism  witn  the 
whole  aroused  spirit  of  the  nation; 
but  Mr.  Bright  never  shrinks  from 
the  loudest  blast  of  opposition.  To 
him  such  acts  as  an  incentive,  and 
not  as  a  deterrent  It  braces  his 
nerves,  it  strings  his  energies.  In 
the  long  run  such  intrepidity  tells 
heavily  and  distinctly.  Tohisgal- 
lantiy-eamed  reputation  for  bdd- 
ness  and  honesty  Mr.  Bright  is 
indebted  for  that  vast  moral  weight 
which  he  eigoys  among  oountleBS 
thousands  all  over  the  country. 

For  ourselves,  while  believing  that 
Mr.  Bright  is  essentially  an  honest 
man,  we  doubt  how  fiur  such  moral 
weight  is  duly  his.  It  will  be  seen 
that  we  desire  to  give  him  most 
ungrudging  and  unb6unded  praise 
to  his  magnificent  achievements; 


118 


8ketche$  in  the  Bouse  of  Commom, 


bat  it  appears  to  ns  that  his  career 
hat  involved  him  in  some  of  the 
most  grievous  inoonsistencieB  which 
it  is  possible  to  imagine.  Techni- 
call  J  a  man  of  peace,  Mr.  Bright  is 
really  and  truly  a  man  of  war. 
Teefanieally  he  wonld  tnm  aaide 
with  infinite  loathing  from  the  speo- 
tMle  of  the  slightest  bloodshed ;  but 
amid  the  remoter  links  of  the  chain 
of  eansation  he  has  been  bni^  in 
promotiDg  those  canses  which  in  all 
ages  of  the  world's  history  have 
mostly  kiDdled  conflagration, and  un- 
leashed the  dogs  of  war.  To  set  race 
agaiBst  race,  class  aeainst  class^order 
against  order,  is  the  natural  result 
of  his  long  oratorical  career.  Just 
as  wide  waters  gain  immense  force 
by  shooting  through  a  narrow 
goige,  so  Mr.  Brighfs  eloquence 
gains  intense  force  by  reason  of  that 
ver^  narrowness  of  mind  through 
which  that  eloquence  is  presented. 
Mr.  Bright  is  a  Paganini,  who  can 
play  with  matchless  skill,  but  can 
only  play  upon  a  single  string.  He 
is  enentially  narrow  and  hourgeois, 
with  a  mind  which  presents  a  total 
tabula  rasa  in  respect  to  the  associa- 
tkmfl  and  traditions  of  our  national 
Instiory.  It  is  a  pity,  also,  that  Mr. 
Biighi  mars  his  real  greatness  hj 
aa  occasional  want  of  generosity  and 
sindgfatforwarduess.  There  was 
something  absolutely  mean  and  un- 
generous in  the  way  in  which  he 
aaaanlted  Mr.  Disraeli  on  his  men- 
tion oi  the  Queen's  name,  and  made 
the  latter  say,  with  terrible  emphasiB, 
that  he  put  himself  in  the  hands  of 
genUemm.  Let  us  hope,  however, 
that  Lord  Lytton's  kindly  prophecy 
will  be  fulfilled  in  respect  to  the 
President  of  the  Board  of  Trade:— 

'  Let  Bright  responsible  for  EngUod  be, 
JLDd  ilraigbt  in  Bright  a  Chatham  we  shouUI 

lEr.  Oardwell  is  a  man  who  is 
a  highly  favourable  specimen  of  a 
bureaucrat  He  has  for  many 
yean  sat  for  Oxford,  with  a  very 
safe  seat,  except  once  when  he  lost 
it^  until  Mr.  Neate  was  unseated 
on  petition,  and  once  when  it  was 
secioasly  challenged  by  the  late 
Mr.  Thackeray.  Mr.  Oardwell,  a 
double-first  at  Oxford,  went  the 
Norti^em  Circuit  for  a  time,  but, 
wisely  abandoning  it,  the  obscure 


barrister  became  a  very   eminent 
politician.     He  was  just  the   kioci 
of  man  for  whom  Sir  Robert  PocJ 
would  feel  a  kindness,  and  he  was 
not  only  quite  a  favourite  among 
'Peel's  Bo>s,'  and  pushed  cowards 
in  the  path  of  political  advance- 
ment, but  Sir  Robert  left  him  one 
of   his   literary  executors   in  con- 
junction with  Earl  Stanhopa     We 
cannot  say  that  to  our  mind  this 
literally  executorship  was  ever  satis- 
fiictorily  fulfilled,  or  that  the  execu- 
tors qui^e  cleued  up  that  dnbions 
cloud  which  appears  to  have  at- 
tached itself  to  the  memory  of  this 
great  statesman.     It  appears  pro- 
bable that  the  times  were  too  recent 
to  allow  of  the  publication  of  all 
the  documentary  evidence  designed 
for  his  exculpation  from  the  charge 
of  political  tergiversation  brought 
agamst  him.    As  a  Peelite  of  the 
Peelites  Mr.  Oardwell  has  a  special 
afi^ity  for  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  he  is 
as  heavy  or^ance  to  the  Oabinet, 
but  as  a  speaker  he  is  dispiriting  to 
a  degree. 

But  there  has  been  no  parlia- 
mentary rise  so  rapid  because  so 
entirely  unexpected  as  that  of  Mr. 
Gosohen.     His  name  tells  us  that 
he  is  of  German  origin,  his  grand- 
father   being,    we   understand,  a 
Leipsic  publisher.    He  is  perhaps 
the  most  distinguished  of  the  pnpiis 
whom  the  present  Archbishop  Tait 
educated  at  Rugby.     He  went  to 
Oriel,  and  took  a  first  class  in  the 
schools,   and   then  quietly  settled 
down  as  a  merchant  in  the  paternal 
office  at  Austin  Friars.    Among'the 
Oity  men  Mr.  Goschen  made  a  great 
reputation.     The   Oity  is  bv  no 
means     indifferent    to    academic 
culture;    on  the  contraiy,  it  has 
a  high  and  even  exagfrerated  pense 
of  its  importance,  and  Mr.  Goschen's 
first  class  must,  in  no  poor  way, 
have  backed  up  his  practical  busi- 
ness talents.    Me  also  did  himself 
infinite    credit    by   a   publication 
entitled    the    'Theory  of  Foreign 
Exchange.'     In  1863  he  was  first 
returned  as  one  of  t^e  memhera  of 
the  Oity  of  London,  and  so  satisfied 
were    his  constituents  with  their 
careful  choice  that  last  election  they 
returned  him  at  the  head  of  the 
poll.    He  had  only  been  a  year  and 


Sketches  in  ike  Hfnue  of  Commons. 


119 


a  half  in  the  House  when  he  was 
made  Yioe-President  of  the  Board 
of  Tra^e,  and  he  had  hardly  held 
that  office  for  a  couple  of  months 
when  he  was  made  a  Cabinet 
Minister  as  Chancellor  of  the 
Duchy  of  Lancaster.  Such  pro- 
motion is  almost  the  most  rapid  on 
record.  It  naturally  elicited  a  great 
•dead  of  criticism.  What  had  this 
young  man  done  to  be  passed  over 
the  heads  of  his  seniors,  especially  a 
senior  of  such  undoubted  powers  as 
Mr.  Layard  ?  And  even  supposing 
that  he  poeseesed  such  transoendent 
abilil^,  what  particular  scope  for 
his  ability  would  be  found  in  such 
a  siuecure  office  as  the  Chancellor- 
ship of  the  Dacby  of  Lancaster? 
When  Mr.  Goschen  became  a 
<}abinet  Minister  he  brought  ail 
his  engagements  with  the  flourish- 
ing commercial  house  of  Goschen 
to  a  close,  believing  that  in  this 
xsountry  statesmanship  and  trade 
4ue  incompatible  crafts.  We 
imagine,  however,  that  Mr.  Goschen 
must  financially  be  a  loser  by  this 
honourable  exchange.  He  had  been 
■a  Cabinet  Minister  for  five  months 
wl^  he  went  out  in  the  summer 
of  '66,  when  his  chief.  Earl  Bussell, 
who  had  given  him  his  much- 
canvassed  promotion,  made  his  final 
retirement  from  office.  He  is  now 
once  more  reinstated  in  the  Cabinet, 
with  an  apparently  better  chance  of 
«  longer  continuance  in  office,  as 
Presiaent  of  the  Poor  Law  Board. 
This  office  belongs  to  a  department 
of  public  affiiirs  which  confessedly 
is  m  a  most  unsatisfactory  con- 
ation, and  which  will  give  Mr. 
Goschen  abundant  scope  for  all  his 
-energies.  It  can  hardly  be  said 
that  up  to  the  present  point  he  has 
quite  justified  tne  expectations  that 
nave  been  formed  respecting  him. 
He  is  supposed  to  have  half  a  dozen 
important  Bills  on  hand,  but  the 
Irish  Bill  seems  effectually  to  have 
stopped  the  way  of  all  other  legis- 
lation. Still  Mr.  Goschen  mani- 
festly possesses  great  statesmanlike 
qualities,  and  has  probably  a  great 
career  before  him. 

If  Lord  Hartington  had  not 
been  Lord  Hartington,  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  he  would  ever  have 
been  a  Cabinet  Minister:  but  the 


heir  of  the  dukedom  of  Devonshire 
and  the  earldom  of  Burlington  is  a 
power  in  the  state.  He  is  not, 
mdeed,  so  clever  a  man  as  his 
father— by  no  possibility  can  he 
ever  be  so  clever  and  so  learned — 
but  he  is  a  very  fiur  debater,  which 
his  father  is  not  It  is  positively 
painful  to  hear  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire stammering  through  one  of 
his  most  sensible  speeches,  repeat- 
ing half  of  each  sentence  and  in  a 
high  state  of  stammering;  and  it 
is  hardly  to  be  regretted  that  he 
speaks  so  rarely.  But  he  is  an 
astonishing  man,  inheriting  a  large 
portion  of  the  genius  of  the 
philosopher  Cavendish,  Second 
Wrangler  and  First  Smith's 
Prizeman  at  Cambridge— and,  as 
his  son  Lord  Hartington  has  been 
heard  to  say— knowing  everything 
and  forgetting  nothing.  Not  so 
wide  and  profound  in  £)owledge — 
not,  indeed,  under  the  suspicion  of 
possessing  a  twentieth  part  of  such 
knowledge— Lord  Hartington  has 
yet  talent  and  presence,  and  may  do 
his  party  and  the  country  efficient 
service.  He  fought  last  autumn 
the  most  splendid  contest  of  the 
whole  General  Election,  the  house  of 
Cavendish  being  pitted  against  the 
house  of  Stanley,  and  he  experienced 
that  kind  of  defeat  which  is  hardly 
less  honourable  than  a  victory.  He 
might  have  been  excluded  from 
Parliament,  but  a  private  gentle- 
man, of  a  benevolent  and  philan- 
thropic turn,  thought  it  a  thousand 
pities  that  the  son  of  a  duke  should 
be  without  a  seat  in  Parliament^ 
especially  when  a  seat  in  the 
Cabinet  probably  depended  on  it« 
and  so  patriotically  ehminated  him- 
self from  the  House  to  make  way 
for  Lord  Hartington.  The  out- 
going Member  declared  that  he  had 
no  personal  motive,  and  his  yery 
appellation  —  Green  Pryce — was 
suggestive  of  the  fact;  but  in  the 
world  of  politics,  as  elsewhere, 
'smners  lena  to  sinners  hoping  to 
receive  as  much  again.'  It  will 
be  remembered  that  Lord  Hart- 
ington moved,  in  1859,  the  vrant 
of  confidence  motion  which  ejected 
the  Derbyites  from  power.  He  also 
belonged  to  Lord  Granville's  special 
mission  to  Bussia,  in  1856,  on  the 


120 


Skdcku  Ml  1h$  HousB  of  Commons. 


occamon  of  the  Czar's  coronation; 
his  consin,  the  last  Doke,  had  been 
Ambassador  to  Russia  with  extra- 
ordinary splendoor,  and  had  been 
a  personal  friend  of  the  Czar 
Nicholas. 

But  we  mnst  now  torn  to  the 
new  blood  of  which  Mr.  Gladstone 
has  niade  a  liberal  infasion. 

Mr.  Childers  is  another  Ans- 
tralian ;  he,  marrying  some  twenty 
years  ago,  sailed  away  to  Anstialia 
to  try  fortone  at  the  antipodes,  and 
he  learned  statesmanship  in  the 
very  first  Legislatiye  Assembly  that 
met  for  the  colony  of  Victoria.  He 
only  arrived  in  Australia  the  year 
before  Mr.  Lowe  quitted  it,  and  side 
by  side  th^  first  become  members 
of  the  British  Cabinet  He  only 
entered  Parliament  in  1860,  so  his 
success  has  been  as  rapid  as  his 
career  has  been  full  of  force  and 
ability.  We  believe  it  is  something 
wonderful  to  reflect  in  how  many 
difierent  companies  Mr.  Childers 
has  been  attached  as  director  or  as 
chairman.  He  turned  his  financial 
talents  to  account  as  Financial 
Secretary  to  the  Treasury.  But  it 
was  in  reference  to  the  Admiralty 
that  Mr.  Childers  achieved  a  special 
reputation.  His  first  Government 
post  was  that  of  junior  Lord  oi 
the  Admiralty,  and  afterwards  he 
always  sustained  an  unceasing 
system  of  vigilant  criticism  upcm 
all  Admiralty  detail.  Synthesis  is 
harder,  always,  than  analysis ;  and 
it  remains  to  be  seen  whether  Mr. 
Childers  can  do  all  the  great  things 
which  he  gave  us  to  understand  by 
implication  to  be  susceptible  of 
accomplishment. 

Mr.  Bruce  is  another  of  the  novi 
homines,  that  is  to  say,  of  those  who 
are  comparatively  untried  and  are 
sitting  in  the  Cabinet  for  the  first 
time.  As  Secretary  of  State  for 
the  Home  Department  he  takes  pre- 
cedence of  the  other  Secretaries  of 
State.  He  is  connected  with  some 
illustrious  names,  for  he  is  nephew 
to  the  late  Lord  Justice  Knight 
Bruce,  whose  legal  fame  will  long 
live  in  the  law  courts,  and  he  mar- 
ried a  daughter  of  Sir  William 
Napier,  the  historian  of  the  Penin- 
sular War,  and  also  the  niece  of  Sir 
Charles  Napier,  the  conqueror  of 


Scinde.  For  seventeen  years  he 
represented  Merthyr  TydvU,  a  very 
unsavoury  locality  to  represent, 
unpleasing  and  ungrateful,  and 
threw  him  over  eventoally  in 
favour  of  a  dissenting  minister.  It 
is  rather  hard  lines  upon  the  Church 
of  England  and  on  Boman  Catholics, 
that  whUe  any  Dissenting  or  Pres- 
byterian minister  can  sit  in  Parlia- 
ment, this  is  not  permitted  to  ai^ 
one  who  has  received  episcopal  ordi- 
nation. When  he  had  been  in  Par- 
liament for  ten  years,  Lord  Palmer- 
ston— having  certainly  taken  plenty 
of  time  to  turn  over  the  matter  in 
his  mind— made  Mr.  Bruce  Under- 
Secretary  in  the  very  department 
where  he  is  now  Secretary  of  State. 
When  the  Tories  succeeded  in  eject- 
ing Mr.  Lowe  from  his  office  of  Vice- 
President  of  the  Council,  Mr.  Bruce 
became  the  virtual  Minister  of  Edu- 
cation, having  to  give  way  to  Lord 
Bobert  Monti^g^  on  the  accession  of 
the  Derby  Government.  Mr.  Bruce 
has  moved  with  the  times,  and — 
possibly  under  some  eleotoiul  pres- 
sure— has  reoentiy  become  a  convert 
to  the  doctrine  of  the  Ballot  As 
Mr.  Gladstone,  under  the  tuition  of 
Mr.  Bright,  is  obviously  inclining 
this  way,  it  is  not  hard  to  see  in 
what  direction  we  shall  have  an- 
other parliamentary  conflict  It  is 
quite  pretty  to  see  how  the  new 
Cabinet  mmisters  are  plucking  up 
under  the  genial  sunshine  of  prospe- 
rity. Wiu  a  strong  Government 
and  a  popular  Premier,  they  are 
evidently  calculating  on  a  prolonged 
tenure  of  power.  Mr.  Bruce,  who 
has  been  described  as  a '  hesitating, 
under-his-breath-talking,  diffident 
gentleman,'  has  lost  those  amiable 
characteristics,  and  comes  out  every 
inch  a  Cabinet  minister.  Mr.  Chil- 
ders, steady  and  stalwart  and 
'  bearded  like  a  Pard,'  fills  both  the 
eye  and  the  imagination,  and  gives 
us  ftdly  to  understand  how  he  will 
demolish  any  pseudo-Childers  who 
may  inveigh  against  Admiralty  ex- 
penditure. 

Now  here  are  the  great  law-offi- 
cers of  the  Crown,  tiie  Attorney- 
General  and  the  Solicitor-GenenJ. 
We  wiU  take  the  Solicitor-General 
first,  as  being  in  every  respect 
the  more   important  of  the  two. 


Skelckea  in  ike  House  of  Commons. 


121 


Thftt  ^780  Sir  John  Duke  Cole- 
ridge's own  yeiy  decided  opinion 
when  he  at  first  refused  to  serve 
under  Sir  Robert  Collier,  nntil  his 
hesitating '  No '  was,  in  amost  lady- 
like way,  converted  into  a  very  well- 
satisfied  '  Tes.'  The  Solicitor-Gene- 
ral is  probably  the  finest  advocate 
at  the  bar.  He  has  also  some  states- 
manlike qualities,  and  has  a  very 
OQDsiderable  reputation  in  the  House 
of  Ccmunons.  His  maiden  speech, 
three  years  ago,  on  the  subject  of 
Univeraity  B^orm,  was  the  most 
snccessfdl  maiden  speech  made  for 
many  years  within  tne  House.  Sir 
John  has  never  advanced  beyond 
the  point  indicated  by  that  speech; 
indeed  one  or  two  speeches  which 
he  made  were  comparative  fiulures, 
but  on  the  whole  he  has  mamtained 
his  lepatation.  He  is  a  man  who 
in  a  very  thorough  way  has  main- 
tained the  hononr  and  independence 
of  the  English  bar.  His  practice  is 
now  immense,  and  he  has  conducted 
very  heavy  cases  with  great  ability, 
and  in  a  manner  that  has  obtained 
for  him  the  highest  credit  In  the 
8anrincase,especially,— which  made 
such  an  extraordinary  inroad  upon 
his  time  that  he  described  it  as  an 
exercise  of  poverty  to  himself  and 
lir.  Hellish— his  speeches  and  the 
general  management  of  the  case 
were  beyond  all  praise.  But  Sir 
John  is  much  more  than  a  very 
successful  barrister.  He  has  larger 
studies,  wider  sympathies,  stronger 
convictions,  both  ecclesiastical  and 
political,  than  most  barristers  are 
accredited  with.  He  gave  the  other 
day,  in  a  brief  compass,  a  most  ex- 
cellent enunciation  of  the  morality 
of  advocacy:  'It  was  one  of  the  first 
rules  of  the  profession  that  a  man, 
whether  guilty  or  innocent,  whether 
the  victim  of  unjust  prejudice  or 
not,  should  be  able  to  retain  the 
services  of  an  advocate,  in  order  to 
see  that  justice  was  done  him.  It 
was  because  the  bar  had  not  the 
right  to  make  selections  and  to  form 
their  own  opmions  on  cases,  that  the 
profession  hebelonged  to  was  the  pro- 
feasionofagentleman.  Ifthe  bar  were 
to  identify  ^emselves  with  their  cli- 
ents, and  to  exercise  their  ownjudg- 
mentinrespect  to  thecases  submitted 
to  them,  they  would  be  open  to  the 


base  charge  of  selling  their  convic- 
tions and  opinions,  which  no  person, 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  facts,  could 
venture  to  impute  to  them  now.'  It 
was  this  reputation  at  the  bar,  and 
the  wide  reputation  which  he  enjoys 
beyond  the  limits  of  lus  profession, 
which  have  greatly  determined  Sir 
John's  reputation  in  Parliament. 
The  lawyer  whom  he  most  re- 
sembles in  his  career  is  Sir  Alexan- 
der Cockbum,  who,  by  a  single 
great  effort,  made  his  parliamentary 
and  forensic  reputation  equal.  But 
neither  at  the  bar  or  in  Parliament 
will  the  Solidtor-Qeneral  ever  be 
the  equal  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
of  England.  '  There  were  giants  in 
those  days,'  but  giantdom  is  almost 
over.  The  barristers  hardly  take 
ten  per  cent  of  the  profits  made  by 
solicitors,  and  a  deterioration  must 
be  the  inevitable  result  Sir  John 
Coleridge  was  long  the  rival  of  Sir 
John  Earslake,  on  the  Western  Cir- 
cuit, and  after  the  latter  had  be- 
come a  law  adviser  of  the  Crown 
he  was  the  undisputed  leader.  It 
was  said  that  the  solicitors  gene- 
rally went  to  Earslake  for  law,  and 
to  Coleridge  for  eloquence.  That 
is  Sir  John  Earslake,  on  the  other 
side,  much  knocked  up,  it  is  said, 
by  his  excessive  work  when  At- 
tomey-Qeneral ;  but  though  he  has 
never  made  the  set  speeches  in 
which  his  honourable  and  learned 
firiend  indulges,  he  is  every  whit 
as  great  a  favourite  in  the  House 
from  his  handsome  presence  and 

Eleasant  manner.  The  work  of 
kw  officer  involves  heavy  work 
and  heavy  gains.  Lord  Hatherly, 
the  Chancellor,  when,  as  Sir  W.  P. 
Wood,  he  became  Solicitor-General, 
resigned  the  office  in  less  than  a 
twelvemonth,  because  'it  entailed 
u  pon  him  so  large  an  amount  of  late 
work,  and  so  interfered  with  his 
domestic  life  and  comfort  of  home.' 
A  Solicitor-General,  however,  must 
not  mind  late  work,  and  domestic 
life  and  the  comforts  of  home  must 
not  have  too  potent  a  charm  for 
him.  SirJohn  Coleridge  burst  upon 
the  House  in  a  character  which  one 
would  least  expect  from  a  barrister, 
as  a  remarkable  instance  of  ingenu- 
ousness and  innocence.  Such  a  suc- 
cessful surprise  could  not,  however. 


132 


Skdche$  im  the  Home  ofOommatiM. 


besr  npotitioiL  MoieoY6r,  tboo^ 
8o  ooortams  and  urbane.  Sir  John 
has  always  got  hia  spun  in  fighting 
order.  He  wears  steel  beoeath  hia 
gkrra  After  the  tehion  of  the  P.B., 
he  wiU  ahake  handa  handsomely 
with  an  opponent  before  perfonning 
the  operation  of  blacking  hia  ^ea. 
When  Mr.  Fawoett^  the  other  day, 
aaked  some  qnestion  about  his  ap- 
pearing as  eooDsel  for  the  Qnmeya 
— Mr.  Ea woett  is  the  blind  memb^, 
rather  a  straight,  sallow  man,  ear- 
nest, thonghtfol-looking,  and  wears 
specfaclea— Sir  John  fell  upon  him 
with  absolute  savagery,  ana  showed 
that  sleekness  and  purr  have  less 
agreeable  accompaniments.  Sir  John 
has  an  hereditaiy  reputation  to  sup- 
port, which  he  has  nobly  Tindicated ; 
and  though  he  will  probably  attain 
a  higher  i)0st  than  uat  held  by  his 
iktber,  it  is  impossible  that  he  can 
eiceed  the  measure  of  reverence 
and  affection  with  which  Judge 
Coleridge  was  justly  regarded  by 
his  contemporaries. 

Sir  J.  P.  OoUier  is  a  man  of  much 
versatility  and  taleni  As  member 
fisr  Plymouth,  where  his  family  are 
of  good  standing  in  the  wine  trade, 
he  represents  an  important  and 
popular  constituency.  The  At- 
torney-General is  a  man  of  many 
accomplishments.  We  believe  that 
he  has  exhibited  at  the  Boyal  Aca- 
demy. Both  as  a  lawyer  and  in  Par- 
liament he  has  at  tunes  acquitted 
himself  respectably.  He  has  con- 
ducted cases  very  nicely;  especially 
when  Miiller  was  tried  for  the  rail- 
way murder,  he  conducted  the  pro- 
secution at  the  Old  Bailey  very  ably. 
He  might  have  been  one  of  the  three 
puisne  judges  appoiDted  under  the 
Government  of  Mr.  Disraeli,  but  he 
wisely  reserved  himself  for  greater 
things.  He  had  a  strong  political 
claim  on  the  office  of  Attorney- 
General,  which  it  was  found  im- 
possible to  ignore.  Nevertheless, 
this  was  probably  the  weakest  ap- 
pointment made  by  Mr.  Gladstoce 


on  his  accession  to  power.  It  Med 
to  command  weight  either  with  the 
profession  ot  with  the  country.  In 
glancing  over  the  Law  BeportB  yon 
very  rarely  find  the  name  of  the  Ai- 
tomey-Geneial  except  on  Crown 
business.  Sir  John  Coleridge  spoke 
the  other  night  amid  huighter  of  the 
Bupposititiona  case  of  barristBrs  se- 
lected as  law  olBcen  of  the  Grown, 
whom  no  peraona  would  engage  in 
any  important  case,  and  tiie  confi- 
deoce  of  the  Crown  being  extended 
only  to  those  to  whom  nobody  else 
woukl  extend  confideooe!  It  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Solioitar- 
General  meant  this  as  a  satire  upon 
his  chief,  whose  appointment  he 
strongly  condemned— it  was,  indeed, 
whispered  that  his  friends  expected 
that  he  would  be  Attom^-General 
himself  or  possibly  Lord  OhanceUor 
per  mHum—hrA  there  is  an  old  pro- 
verb about  the  cap  fitting.  But 
both  these  lawyos  pale  altogether  in 
reputation  before  that  great  states- 
man-barrister. Sir  Boundell  Palmer, 
who,  in  moral  elevation,  is  unsur- 
passed in  the  House,  through  his 
glorious  disinterestedness  in  refus- 
ing, tiirough  a  scruple  which  most 
politicians  would  easily  overcome, 
the  most  splendid  prize  within  the 
reachoftiie  subject,  and  which  would 
have  placed  him  next  to  the  throne 
itselfl  He  now  commands  almost 
the  veneration  of  the  House  and 
the  counixy:  a  thoughtful,  quie^ 
self-restrained,  self-balanced  man  is 
Sir  Boundell  in  repose,  but  trea- 
sures of  force  are  stored  up  within 
that  quiet  exterior.  He  can  be  hu- 
morous, as  when  he  attacked  Mr. 
Layard  on  the  Courts  of  Justice 

anestion;  and  intense  emotion, 
bough  held  in  check,  can  be 
blended  with  severest  reasoniog, 
as  in  that  masterly  speech  on  the 
Irish  Church,  which,  in  intellectual 
and  moral  power,  has  been  the 
greatest  effort  this  session  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

oontwuedi) 


--^^l 


^J> 


.^*v3K 


123 


A  HARP  ACCOMPANIMENT. 


W 


row  that  the  newspapers  are 
teeming  with  advertiflements 
of  fBtft-sailing  packets,  cheap  ezcnr- 
sion  trains,  combinations  to  secure 
to  companies  of  toorists  all  the  ad- 
Tantages  that  can  be  obtained  daring 
a  swift  inspection  of  continental 
cities  and  a  tmndle  through  cele- 
brated picture-galleries,  cathedrals, 
and  museums,  it  is  confusing  to  the 
man  who  learns  daily  that  'eveiy- 
body  is  out  of  town'  when  he  sees 
so  many  people  in  the  streets,  and 
he  hardly  knows  which  to  admire 
most,  the  elasticity  of  language  or 
the  Tast  population  represented  by 
'nobody/ 

If  eveiybody  is  out  of  town,  what 
becomes  of  nobody  who  still  throngs 
the  hot,  dusty  streets,  crowds  the 
penny  steamboatEf,  struggles  to  the 
roofs  of  omnibuses,  slakes  his  thirst 
at  the  metropolitan  luncheon-bars, 
opens  and  shuts  shops  and  ware- 
houses for  the  sake  of  appearances, 
and  generally  pervades  all  London, 
just  as  though  he  had  any  right  to 
be  within  the  cab  radius  and  on  the 
stones,  when  he  is  supposed  to  be 
concerned  in  what  we  all  join  in 
calling  the  'general  exodus,'  and 
to  be  enjoying  the  holiday  season, 
that  leaves  town  empty  and  gives  a 
pathetic  interest  to  the  last  enters 
iainments  of  the  season? 

We  all  know  where  everybody 
goes,  although  we  are  a  little  puzzled 
to  learn  from  special  correspondents 
that  in  a  corporate  capacity  every- 
bodv  resembles  Sir  Bojle  Boohe*s 
birci  in  the  ability  to  be  in  two 

E laces  at  one  tima  'Everybody  is 
ere,'  writes  the  gay  chronicler  at 
Biarritz;  and  'I  like  to  go  to  Mar- 
gate beoiuse  one  meets  everybody 
there,'  says  the  confidential  corre- 
spondent describing  the  glories  of 
the  Hall  by  the  Sea.  'The  clubs 
are  empty ;  everybody  has  left  the 
Bow  and  gone  to  Baden,  Homburg, 
and  the  other  places  where  the  pur- 
suit of  health  is  mitigated  by  the 
amusements  to  be  found  in  the 
Kursaal,'  declares  the  fashionable 
intelligencer  who  thinks  he  was 
onoe  in  the  Poultry,  or  Mile  End, 


or  Shoreditch,  or  some  of  thoEe 
places  east  of  Temple  Bar. 

We  have  seen  everybody  at  Chis- 
wick,  at  Hampton  Wick,  at  Henley- 
on-Thames,  at  South  Kensington, 
and  half  a  dozen  other  places,  but 
tell  us  when  and  tell  us  where  does 
nobody  go  when  the  sun  scorches 
the  pavement  in  Begent  Street  and 
the  fountain  at  the  Boyal  Exchange 
runs  dry? 

Well,  to  a  good  many  places; 
but  before  you  are  thoroughly  in 
the  secret  you  must  know  nobody 
and  be  quite  out  of  everybody's 
sodety  for  a  time  at  all  events.  To 
begin  with,  it  will  be  as  well  to 
commence  a  course  of  explorative 
wanderings  in  back  streets  and 
rather  slummy  neighbourhoods ;  to 
become  familiar  with  certain  taverns 
where,  in  rooms  decorated  with  sym- 
bolic devices,  benefit  societies,  more 
or  less  philanthropic  in  their  aims, 
and  more  or  less  'united'  in  their 
determinations,  hold  their  meetings; 
to  lurk  about  the  doorways  of 
'  halls'  or  lecture-rooms  not  uncon- 
nected with  particular  callings,  and 
study  the  highly-ornamental  an- 
nouncements that  'the  annual  ex- 
cursion of  the  "  Loyal  Amalgamated 
Clickers,"  the  "  Bein  vested  Associa- 
tion of  the  BeguUr  Bufiiers,"  or  the 
"  Woodmen  of  Trees  No.  i,  a,  and  3," 
to  that  well-known  place  of  resort 
the  Old  Welsh  Harp  at  Hendon 
will  be  held  on  Monday:  tickets, 
including  the  &re  there  and  back 
and  tea  in  the  romantic  pleasure- 
grounds,  35.  6€L 

'In  addition  to  the  beauties  of 
nature  for  which  that  well-known 
resort  is  celebrated,  there  will  be 
added  to  the  attractions  of  the 
grounds  the  games  of  Aunt  Sally, 
archery  and  rifle-practice,  pony  and 
donkey-riding,  boating  on  the  mag^ 
nificent  lakes,  and  choice  angling 
for  lovers  of  "  the  gentle  art." 

'  N.B.--The  prty  will  start  at  ten 
o'clock  precisely  in  six  of  Plodder's 
celebrated  four-horse  covered  light 
vaus,  and  a  first-rate  band  of  music 
will  accompany  the  excursion.' 

Should  you  be  in  any  mysterious 


124 


A  Earp  AeeompaiUwieaL 


way  ocnmected  with  nobody  em- 
ployed in  a  pnnting-offioe,  or  with 
nobody  who  is  a  member  oi,  say 
the  Ck>operatiye  AKOciaiion  of  Un- 
mitigated Brass  Button  Btampera, 
you  will  still  find  that  the  mnsic  of 
the  Old  Welsh  Harp  has  an  attrso- 
tion  which  leads  the  imagination  to 
an  annual '  wayzgoose'  dinner  or  to 
a  celebration  sometimes  called  a 
bean-feast,  but  which  more  £re- 
<;inently  takes  the  genteel  appella- 
tion of  festiyaL  It  is  on  some  each 
occasicm  as  this  that  yon  see  nobody 
in  full  force,  and  the  resources  of 
the  well-known  hostelry  at  Hendon 
are  displayed  to  the  ntmoet  adyan- 

Not  that  the  pleasure-gxonndsare 
without  interest  when  a  few  ardent 
sportsmen  alone  are  engaged  in 
'  palling  out  the  two-ponnden'  from 
the  great  laka  Th^  is  a  gentle- 
man known  to  everybody  when 
everybody  is  in  town  for  his  extra- 
ordinary performances  in  the  cha- 
racter of  '  the  Perfect  Cure/  whose 
quiet  hours  of  recreation  and  relief 
nom  saltatoiy  exercise  are  spent  in 
piscatorial  pursuits ;  and  if  that  is 
not  a  genteel  way  of  mentioning  the 
fact  Mr.  Stead  goes  a  fishing  at 
Hendon  it  is  difficult  to  say  what 
would  be.  Our  model  for  this  form 
of  expression  is  to  be  found  in  the 
posters  and  handbills  before  referred 
to,  and  by  them  we  are  able  to  form 
a  style  at  once  ornate  and  emphatic. 
When  nobody  individually  goes  to 
the  Old  Welsh  Harp  there  are  plenty 
of  objects  for  pleasant  meditation. 
The  natural  history  of  the  place  is 
richly  represented  in  the*fiist  room 
to  which  you  are  directed;  that 
pleasant  bright  parlour  where  speci- 
mens of  the  remains  of  great  jack, 
and  every  eminently-edible  fresh- 
water fish  in  which  the  chain  of 
lakes  abounds,  occupy  honourable 
positions  in  plate*  glaas  sarcophagi, 
while  the  ornithological  collection, 
increased  weekly  by  the  unerring 
gun  of  Mr.  Warner,  the  genial  pro- 

grietor,  would  have  delighted  the 
eart  of  GQbert  White  of  Selbome. 
It  is  true  that  the  live  creatures 
are  not  all  to  the  .manor  born ;  and 
the  Australian  piping-crow,  who 
welcomes  you  with  a  tune  like  the 
notes  of  a  magic  flute,  and  barks 


like  a  hospitable  dog,  may  be  said 
to  share  with  the  wild  cat,  which 
lives  in  a  tree  and  will  come  down 
to  be  stroked  and  fed,  the  foreign 
honourB  of  the  place;  but  hve 
hound  and  painter,  stojOGed  king- 
fisher and  gaunt  bittern,  alike  attest 
a  place  which  nobody  declares  is 
*  the  same  as  being  a  hundred  miles 
in  the  country.' 

Then  there  is  philosophic  contem- 
plation for  the  reflective  mind  in 
the  walks  and  terraces,  the  rustic 
seats  and  tables,  the  empty  arbours 
carefully  built  with  rural  thatches, 
but  recognising  the  demands  of 
civilization  by  being  each  provided 
with  a  special  gas-lamp  of  its  own 
which  gives  them  rather  a  watch- 
box  air,  but  at  the  same  time  in- 
spires confidence.    Far  beyond,  on 
level  pasture  and  undulating  field, 
stands  a  real  farm,  not  a  toy  affiur, 
made  to  look  rustic  by  pictorial 
artifice,  mind  you,  but  a  thorough 
good  sixteen  hundred  acres,  or  there- 
about,  with  fine  lush   grass  and 
herds  of  dappled  kine  grazing  even 
down  to   tiw  edge  of  the  glas^ 
spring  whence  the  river-fiad  lakes 
are  brimmed.    New  milk,  in  a  regi- 
ment of  great  tin  vessels  ready  to 
be  sent  to   London  underground, 
represents  the  produce  of  the  place, 
you,  that   is   to  say,  everybody, 
may  have  had  some  intimation  of 
Hendon  in  connection  with  the  race- 
course,— itself  a  kind  of  outiying 
connection  of  the  Harp,  which  figu- 
ratively plays  so  many  tunes;  but 
do  not  fancy,  even  after  you  have 
run  down  and  staked  a  new  hat  on 
your  favourite  pony,  and  having 
won  or  lost  have  scuttied  up  to 
town  again  arter  a  hasty  refresh- 
ment at  the  roadside  hostelry  which 
has  so  much  behind  it,  that  you 
have  seen  the  place  as  nobody  has. 
Nobody  goes  down  to  eii^y  his  holi- 
day when  everybody  has  done  with 
racing  for  tiie  season,  or  has  not  yet 
begun  it,  and  there  is  much  to  see 
at  the  village  itself  even  apart  from 
the  Harp,  if  indeed  Hendon  can  be 
separated  from  that  most  musical 
association.    Whether  you  take  your 
way  by  Edgeware  or  by  Hampstead 
across  the  Heath  to  the  villi^ge  on 
the  Brent— whether  the  Harp  be 
silent  or  only  represented  by  the 


A  Harp  Aeeompaniment, 


125 


musical  cadence  of  the  parlour-bell, 
or  the  singing  of  birds  m  the  trees, 
or  the  casual  performance  of  an 
itinerant  negro  tronpe  who  are  on 
the  tramp,  you  are  reminded  of  a 
happy  combination  of  the  contem- 
plative and  the  festive  element. 
Witness  that  fiEurm-like  kitchen 
where  row  after  row  the  great  tea- 
cups of  blae  ware  attest  the  tem- 
Serate  habits  of  the  visitors;  where, 
isdaining  the  coddling  appliances 
of  patent  stoves,  the  presiding 
nymph  of  the  culinary  art  stands 
proudly  before  a  genuine  old- 
nushioned  range,  and  surveys  the 
succulent  joints,  the  tenderly-em- 
browned ohickens,  the  juicy  and 
piquant  ham,  the  savoury  goslings, 
the  innocently-suggestive  custards, 
and  the  freshly-odorous  pies  with  a 
consciousness  of  being  equal  to  any 
occasion,  ay,  even  to  the  Associated 
Corporation  of  Unmitigated  Brass 
Button  Stampers,  whose  annual 
celebration  has  been  long  ago 
heralded  at  their  head-quarters— a 
rather  dingy  hall  at  the  top  of  a 
wholesale  warehouse— by  a  distri- 
bution of  five  hundred  tickets. 
These  five  hundred,  representing 
nobody  while  in  town,  where  the 
recollection  of  the  lon^  line  of  bur- 
nished omnibuses  waitmg  to  convey 
them  are  a  glory  to  the  neighbour- 
hood for  the  entire  smnmer,  are 
now  on  the  road,  the  leading  vehicles 
dashing  along  behind  four  spanking 
peys  apiece,  and  the  others  bring- 
ing up  the  rear  with  the  profes- 
sional brass  band,  which  is  already 
in  l^e  full  harmony  of  that  con- 
certed melody  composed  expressly 
for  such  occasions,  and  entitled 
'  Gome  to  the  Welsh  Harp/  with  an 
emphasis  on  the  to  admirably  ex- 
pressed by  the  trombone.  Bemark- 
able  are  the  hats  of  the '  Associated' 
as  eidiibiting  every  variety  of  male 
head-dress,  from  the  brightly-bur- 
nished 'best  velvet'  at  ten  and  six 
to  the  *  leghorn  fiftncy '  or  the  varie- 
gated cricketing  cap;  for  some  of 
them  mean  cricket,  while  their 
wives  sit  and  mind  the  children  or 
stroll  about  the  grounds  until  dinner 
is  ready.  Others  have  evidently 
some  faint  sense  of  a  rowing  cos- 
tume, by  the  exhibition  of  a  good 
deal  of  blue-striped  shirt  and  a  nar- 


row-brimmed straw  hat:  a  fishing- 
rod  here  and  there  proclaims  the 
ardour  for  sport  which  finds  its 
representative  in  every  British 
breast;  and  though  the  majority 
adopt  the  usual  black  coat,  sprigged- 
velvet  waistcoat,  blue  and  crimson 
satin  tie,  and  hard-looking  hat  that 
leaves  a  red  rim  on  the  forehead  of 
the  wearer,  which  are  distinctive  of 
respectability  and  the  severe  re- 
sponsibilities of  paternity  and  citi- 
zenship, there  is  sufficient  variety 
of  costume,  especially  in  the  wo- 
men's dresses,  to  add  gay  fiecks  and 
patches  of  colour  to  the  trim  garden 
walks  and  flowery  slopes  and 
mounds  of  the  pleasure-ground. 
The  insatiable  propensity  of  the  true 
Briton  for  refreshments  is  manifest 
directly  the  first  team  is  drawn  up 
in  true  sporting  style  at  the  door  of 
thefunous  hosteby.  'Our  worthy 
host,'  as  Mr.  Warner  is  generally 
termed  in  newspaper  records  of 
these  events,  is  at  the  door,  and  Ids 
ruddy  Cemo  and  burly  figure  towers 
above  most  of  the  'Unmitigated,' 
who  are  already  seekmg  the  bar, 
and  thronging  out  into  the  garden 
with  glasses  and  tankarda  Let  us 
be  honest  chroniclers  and  add  that 
shandy  gaff— a  frothy  but  refreshing 
compound  of  ginger-beer  and  ale- 
is  most  in  request,  and  that  as  a 
little  of  it  goes  a  long  way,  and 
there  is  a  sort  of  gentility  in  drink- 
ing it  from  the  long-stemmed  glasses, 
the  ladies  prefer  it  to  headier  ana 
more  expensive  beverages.  For  two 
or  three  houn  the  great  company 
disperses  into  groups,  some  of  which, 
witn  women  and  children,  make 
family  parties  under  the  trees,  con- 
tent to  breathe  the  sweet,  invigo- 
rating air,  to  catch  the  gleam  and 
glow  of  flowers,  the  glory  of  sun- 
light through  trees  and  on  water, 
and  to  listen  to  the  soothing  hum 
of  the  distant  farm-yard,  broken 
now  and  then  by  the  shot  of  a  dis- 
tant gun,  or  the  shouts  and  laughter 
of  the  cricketera  and  donkey-ridera 
in  the  next  fields  behind  the  long 
row  of  arbours. 

Some  few  are  already  gathered  in 
the  vast  dining-room,  a  building 
that  might  be  a  baronial  hall  or  a 
temporarv  church,  or  a  model  school 
without  the  desks  and  forms,  but  is 


126 


A  Earp  Aecomjpcmmetit^ 


in  leality  like  neither,  sinoe  beneath 
its  lofty,  high-pitched  loof  are  long 
rows  of  gleaming  tables,  and  scores 
of  grand,  polished  Windsor  chairs, 
each  with  ample  width  of  arm  and 
cunningly -deviBed  bottom  rails 
which  will  encradle  a  hat  and  pre^ 
serve  it  nninjored.  Here  a  detach- 
ment of  invincible  waiters  in  a  com- 
plete uniform  of  clean  shirt-sleeves 
and  straw  hats  are  busy  spreading 
snowy  drapery,  and  covering  it  with 
eleaming  glass  and  china,  flowers, 
mut,  deep-tinted  wine,  and    sug- 

SBtive  sauces.  Already  those  who 
ve  incontinently  strayed  towards 
the  precincts  of  the  kitchen— an 
outbuilding  from  the  house,  and 
lying  in  concealed  contiguity  to  the 
ludl  itself— have  detected  appetising 
odours,  and,  reg^tting  that  prema- 
ture indulgence  in  biscuit  and  cheese, 
are  wondering  whether  the  property 
usually  attributed  to  sherry  and 
bitters  has  any  foundation  in  fact 
JBefore  they  have  made  up  their 
minds  to  try,  the  clanging  of  a 
mighty  bell  warns  those  who  are  far 
a  field  that  there  is  but  half  an  hour 
or  so  to  wait,  and  after  due  appli- 
cation of  soap  and  water  and  clean 
towels  the  company  files  in,  the 
band  having  already  shown  itself 
worthy  of  the  utmost  confidence  by 
playing  its  best  and  loudest  while 
the  dishes  appear  as  if  summoned 
by  magic,  ana  the  plates  are  shuffled 
and  dealt  like  a  pack  of  cards  in  a 
ooDJuring  trick.  Fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  boiled,  stewed,  and  roast— five 
mortal  courses  from  salmon  to  straw- 
berries—surely nobody  has  an  appe- 
tite which  can  exceed  that  of  the 
co-operatives  who  may  now  be 
spoken  of  as  everybody,  since  they 
are  of  the  great  aggr^ate  which 
is  'out  of  town.'     It  would  be 


impossible  to  describe  that  din- 
ner, but  it  is  pleasant  to  sit  there 
with  a  fine  sense  of  having  eaten 
both  wisely  and  well,  and  to  watch 
the  earnest  endeavours  of  the  more 
sportive  guests  to  '  try  the  waiters.* 
They  may  try  and  try  again,  but 
those  agile  purveyors  to  the  public 
mouth  are  well  up  to  their  work, 
and  so  fiur  from  there  being  any  sign 
of  giving  in,  either  on  their  part  or 
on  the  part  of  the  Old  Welsh  Harp, 
fresh  relays  of  toothsome  vianas 
come  in  smoking  hot,  when  every- 
body is  faint  with  the  recollection 
of  his  achievements,  or  cool  salads 
and  a  dish  of  crystal  ice  refresh  the 
Altering  and  reassure  the  donbtfuL 
Meanwhile  the  band,  which  has 
mightily  strengthened  itself^  is  at 
it  once  more,  and  in  the  enthusiastic 
loyalty  of  the  weQ-fed,  the  usual 
patriotic  toasts  are  celebrated  with 
such  a  national  anthem  as  for  a 
moment  startles  the  birds  in  the 
distant  corn,  and  causes  the  big-eyed 
cows  in  the  pastures  to  lift  their 
slow  necks  and  send  back  a  melo- 
dious bellow  in  response. 

So  with  'Here's  success  to  the 
Old  Welsh  Harp,  and  let  us  hope, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  we  may 
meet  here  again  this  time  next  year,' 
the  assembly  is  once  more  scattered, 
once  more  reunited  in  clusters  at 
the  tables  where  tea  and  water- 
cresses  befit  the  tender  seriousness 
of  the  evening  hour.  Then  a  few 
scattered  notes  from  the  comet,  a 
clattering  of  hoofs,  a  hurried  de- 
mand for  parting  drinks  and  fusees 
and  screws  of  best  birdseye,  and 
everybody  is  gone  back  to  town  to 
become  nobody  once  more;  while 
the  notes  of  the  Welsh  Harp  are 
hushed  in  the  silence  of  the  summer 
night 


127 


WHICH  OF  THE  THREE? 

I 

I  (IliLlTSTBATED.) 

TT7HICH  of  the  three  so  sweet,  I  wonder, 
T  T      Do  sensibre  bachelors  long  to  woo. 
By  wayelets'  wash  and  ripple,  and  under 

The  haze  of  a  sky  which  is  blue— so  bine ! 
A  magnet  thrill  at  the  heart  should  beckon 

The  passionate  boys  to  the  rocks  to  see 
Such  deep-sea  treasures,  and  pause  to  reckon. 

Their  chance  and  choice  of  the  maidens  three. 

Which  of  the  three  ?  'tis  weaiy  choosing, 

A  tale  which  Paris  of  old  b^^. 
For  two  must  bitterly  hate  for  losing. 

And  only  one  can  adore  who  wins. 
A  golden  apple,  the  swain  on  Ida 

Bestowed  on  the  fairest  maid,  but  he 
Would  please  how  few  did  he  dare  decide  a 

Beward  for  the  best  of  my  maidens  three. 

Which  of  the  three  ?  their  fiuses  surely 

Are  best  of  books  for  a  man  to  read ; 
When  Millicent's  eyes  look  down  demurely, 

My  butterfly  gentlemen,  pray  take  heed  1 
For  ^es  of  blue,  though  the  dark  lash  hide  them. 

Deceive  like  songs  which  a  syren  sings ; 
But  blue  or  black  let  us  sit  beside  them. 

And,  like  the  butterflies,  bum  our  wings. 

Which  of  the  three  ?  the  long  wave  hushes 

Its  Toice  in  pleasure  about  their  feet; 
The  seagull  stoops,  and  his  white  wing  brushes 

Their  golden  hair ;  on  the  rooft,  their  seat, 
The  sea  anemones  bloom ;  their  dresses 

The  impudent  breezes  love  to  toss 
In  sweet  disorder,  and  toy  with  tresses 

Which  tell  too  truly  a  ribbon's  loss. 

Which  of  the  three  ?  the  query's  idle, 

Twixt  dark  and  &ir,  or  short  and  tall. 
Would  any  one  choose  if  he  dared  to  sidle. 

And  sit  a  monarch  amidst  them  all  ? 
A  Mormonite  tone  the  ozone  instilleth 

To  those  who  are  happily  sumamed '  young;' 
For  there  on  the  sand,  to  the  man  who  willeth. 

Is  a  throne  three  beautiful  maids  among. 

Whichof  the  three?  if  I  needs  must  choose  one. 

To  rank  all  maids  in  the  world  above, 
I'd  take  nor  care  if  the  world  abuse  one. 

That  maid  whose  attitude  whispers  lova 
And  then  when  summer  returned,  I*d  wander 

No  more  alone  by  tho  dear  old  sea ; 
But  all  that  was  best  in  the  world  I'd  squander 

On  her— the  best  of  the  maidens  three. 

0.  W.  S. 


128 


M.  OB  N. 

*  fijfniiiA  dnlUbot  ourtator.* 

By  G.  J.  WHYTE-MKLVILLE, 

AUTHOB  OF  'DiGBT  GbATO/  «  CkBIBB,'  '  TbM  GlADIAT0B8»'  STO. 

CHAPTER  XXEL 

'  NOT  FOB  JOSEPH.' 


BUT  Dick  Stanmore  was  not  in  a 
bansom  with  Lady  Bearwarden. 
Shall  I  confess,  to  the  utter  destruc- 
tion of  his  character  for  undying 
constancy,  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
be? 

Dick  had  been  cured  at  last-- 
cured  of  the  painful  disease  he  once 
believed  mortal — cured  by  a  course 
of  sanitary  treatment  delightful  in 
its  process,  unerring  in  its  results ; 
and  he  walked  about  now  with  the 
buoyant  step,  the  cheerful  air  of  one 
who  has  been  lightened  of  a  load 
lying  next  his  heart. 

Medical  discoyeries  have  of  late 
years  brought  into  Togue  a  science 


of  which  I  have  borrowed  the  motto 
for  these  pages.  Similia  similibus 
curantur  is  we  maxim  of  homoao- 

gathy;  and  whatever  success  this 
ealing  principle  may  obtain  with 
bodily  ailments,  I  have  little  doubt 
of  its  efficacy  in  affections  of  the 
heart  I  do  not  mean  to  say  its 
precepts  will  render  us  iuTulner- 
able  or  immortal.  There  are  con- 
stitutions that,  once  shaken,  can 
never  be  restored;  there  are  cha- 
racters that,  once  outraged,  become 
Faddened  for  evermore.  The  fairest 
flowers  and  the  sweetest  are  those 
which,  if  trampled  down,  never  hold 
up  their  heads  again.     But  I  do 


M.  or  N. 


;29 


meaa,  that  sboald  may  or  woman 
be  capable  of  onre  under  sofferiogs 
origioatiDg  in  misplaced  oon6dence, 
anch  cure  if>  moat  readily  effected 
by  a  modified  attack  of  the  same 
nature,  at  the  risk  of  misplacing  it 
again. 

Afber  Dick  Stanmore's  first  visit  to 
the  painting-room  in  Bemers  Street, 
it  was  astonishing  how  enthnsiaatic 
a  taste  he  contracted  for  art  He 
was  never  tired  of  contemplating 
his  friend's  great  picture,  and  Simon 
nsed  laughingly  to  declare  the 
amateur  knew  every  line  and  shade 
of  colour  in  his  Fairy  Queen  as 
accurately  as  the  painter.  He  re- 
mained in  London  at  a  season  which 
could  have  afforded  few  attractions 
for  a  young  man  of  his  previous 
habits,  and  came  every  day  to  the 
painting-room  as  regularly  as  the 
model  herself.  Thus  it  fell  out 
that  Dick,  religiously,  superintend- 
ing the  progress  of  this  Fairy  Queen, 
found  his  eyes  wandering  perpetu-. 
ally  from  the  representation'  on 
canvas  to  its  original  on  Miss  Al- 
gernon's shoulders,  and  gratified  his 
sense  of  sight  with  less  scruple,  that 
from  the  very  nature  of  her  occupa- 
tion she  was  compelled  to  keep  her 
head  always  turned  one  way. 

It  must  have  been  agreeable  for 
Nina,  no  doubt,  if  not  improving,  to 
listen  to  Dick's  light  and  rather 
trivial  conversation,  which  relieved 
the  monotony  of  her  task,  and 
formed  a  cheerful  addition  to  the 
short,  jerking,  preoccupied  sentences 
of  the  artist,  enunciated  obviously  at 
random,  and  very  often  with  a  brush 
in  his  mouth.  Nor  was  it  displeas- 
ing, I  imagine,  to  be  aware  of  Mr. 
Stanmore's  admiration,  forsaking 
day  by  day  its  loudly- declared  al- 
legiance to  the  Fairy  Qaeen  in 
favour  of  her  living  prototype, 
deepening  gradually  to  long  inter- 
vals of  silence,  sweeter,  more  em- 
barrassing, while  far  more  eloquent 
than  words. 

And  all  the  time,  Simon,  the 
chivalrous,  painted  on.  I  cannot 
believo  but  that,  with  the  jealous 
instinct  of  true  affection,  he  must 
have  perceived  the  ground  slipping 
away,  hour  by  hour,  from  breath 
his  feet— must  have  seen  the  ship 
that  carried  all  his  cargo  sailing 

VOL.  xvL— HO.  xcn. 


further  and  further  into  a  golden 
distance  to  leave  him  desolate  on 
the  darkening  shore.  How  his 
brain  may  have  reeled,  and  his 
heart  ached,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
speculate.  There  is  a  decency  of 
courage,  as  there  is  an  extravagance 
of  bravado,  and  that  is  the  true 
spirit  of  chivalry  which  bleeds  to 
death  unmoved,  beneath  its  armour, 
keeping  the  pale  knightly  fsce 
turned  calm  and  constant  towards 
the  foe. 

It  was  a  strange  trio,  that,  in  the 
painting-room.  Thegardenof  Eden 
seems  to  have  been  originally  in- 
tended for  two.  .  The. third  was 
dpubtlessjan  intruder,',  and  from 
that  day  to  this  how  many  a  para- 
dise has  been  lost  by  admittance  of 
the  visitor  who  completes  this  un- 
even* number,  unaccouQtably  sup- 
posed to  be  so  productive  of  good 
fortune. 

Curious,  cross  purposes  were  at 
work  in  the  three  heads  grouped 
GO  near  each  others  opposite  the 
painter's  glowing  canvas.-,  Dick 
perhaps  was  th^  least  perceptive 
and  therefore  the  happiest  of  tho 
party.  His  seme  of  well-being, 
indeed,  seekned  enhanced  by  his 
previous  troubles :  like  a  man  who 
comes  out  of  the  cold  into  the  glow 
of  a  comforting  fire,  he  abandoned 
himself  wit ^i out  much  reflection  to 
the  positive  enjoyment  of  pleasure 
and  the  negative  solace  of  relief 
from  pain. 

Simon,  always  painting,  fought 
hard  to  keep  down  that  little 
leavening  of  self  which  consti- 
tutes our  very  identity.  Under 
the  cold  impassive  vigour  he  was 
so  determined  to  preserve,  he  regis- 
tered many  a  noble  vow  of  fortitude 
and  abnegation  on  behalf  of  the 
friend  he  valued,  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  Sometimes  a  pang  would 
shoot  through  him  painfully  enough 
while  he  marked  a  change  of  Nina's 
colour,  a  little  flutter  of  manner,  a 
little  trembling  of  her  hands,  and 
felt  that  she  was  already  more  af- 
fected by  the  presence  of  this  com- 
parative stranger  than  she  had  ever 
shown  herself  by  his,  who  had  cared 
for  her  so  tenderly,  worshipped  her 
so  long.  Then  he  bent  all  his 
faculties  on  the  picture,  and  Iil:c 

K 


130 


M»  ot  N* 


a  child  rnimiog  to  seize  its  mother's 
gown,  took  refnge  with  his  art. 

That  mistress  did  not  fail  him. 
She  never  does  M  the  troe  wor- 
shipper, who  kneels  consistently  at 
her  shrine.  It  is  not  for  her  to 
scorn  the  homage  offered  to-day 
becaose  it  has  been  offered  in  faith 
and  loyalty  dnring  many  a  long 
past  year.  It  is  not  for  her  to  shed 
on  the  new  votary  her  sweetest 
smiles  only  becanse  he  is  new. 
Woo  her  frankly,  love  her  dearly, 
and  serve  her  faithfally,  she  will 
insnre  yon  from  being  cozened  out 
of  your  reward.  Had  she  not  taken 
care  of  Simon  at  this  period,  I 
scarcely  know  what  would  have  be- 
come of  him. 

Nina,  too,  lived  in  a  golden  dresm, 
from  which  it  was  her  only  fear  that 
she  must  soon  awake.  Ere  long, 
she  sometimes  thought,  she  must 
ask  herself,  who  was  this  stranger 
that  brought  with  him  a  flood  of 
sunshine  into  the  homely  painting- 
room?  that  steeped  for  her  uncon- 
sciously and  without  effort,  every 
day  in  happiness,  every  morning  in 
hope?  She  put  off  asking  the 
question,  having  perhaps  a  whole- 
some recollection  of  him,  who,  going 
to  count  his  treasure  of  fairy  gold, 
found  it  only  withered  leaves, 
and  let  herself  float  with  the  stream, 
in  that  enjoyment  of  the  present 
which  is  enhanced  rather  than  modi- 
fied by  miftgivings  for  the  future. 
Nina  was  very  happy,  that  is  the 
honest  truth,  and  even  her  beauty 
seemed  to  brighten  like  the  bloom 
on  a  flower,  opening  to  the  smile  of 
spring. 

Simon  marked  the  change.  How 
could  ho  help  it?  And  still  he 
painted— painted  on. 

'There!'  exclaimed  the  artist, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  he  stepped 
back  from  his  picture,  stretcmng 
both  weary  arms  above  his  head. 
'  At  last-at  last  1  If  I  only  like 
it  to-morrow  as  well  as  I  do  now 
not  another  touch  shall  go  into  it 
anywhere  above  the  chin.  It's  the 
expression  I've  been  trying  to  catch 
for  months.  There  it  is  I  Doubt, 
sorrow,  remorse,  and,  through  it  all, 

the  real  undoing  love  of  the 

Well,  that's  all  cant!  I  mean- 
Cant  you  see,  that  she  likes  liim 


awfully  even  now?  Kina^  you've 
been  the  making  of  me,  you're  the 
best  sitter  in  the  world,  and  while 
I  look  at  my  picture  I  begin  to 
think  you're  the  handsomest.  I 
mustn't  touch  it  again.  Stanmore, 
what  do  you  think  ?' 

Absorbed  in  contemplation  of  his 
work,  he  pttid  little  attention  to  the 
answer,  which  was  so  far  fortunate, 
that  Dick,  in  his  preoccupation,  M- 
tered  out  a  string  of  contradictory 
criticisms,  flattering  neither  to  the 
original  nor  the  copy.  Nina  indeed 
suggested,  with  some  truth,  that  he 
had  made  the  eyebrows  too  dark, 
but  this  remark  appeared  to 
originate  only  in  a  necessity  for 
something  to  say.  These  two  young 
people  seemed  unusually  shy  and 
ill  at  ease.  Perhaps  in  each  of  the 
three  hearts  beating  there  before  the 
picture  lurked  some  vague  sus- 
picion that  its  wistful  expression 
so  lately  caught  may  have  been 
owing  to  corresponding  feelings 
lately  awakened  in  the  model ;  and, 
if  so,  why  should  not  two  of  them 
have  thrilled  with  happiness,  though 
the  third  might  ache  in  loneliness 
and  despair  ? 

*  Not  another  stroke  of  work  will 
I  do  to-day,'  said  the  artist,  affect- 
ing a  cheerfulness  which  perhaps 
he  did  not  feel.  'Nina,  you've  got 
to  be  back  early.  I'll  have  a  half- 
holiday  for  once  and  take  you  home. 
Put  your  bonnet  on :  I  shall  be  ready 
in  five  minutes  when  I've  washed 
my  hands/ 

Dick's  face  fell.  He  had  counted 
on  a  couple  more  hours  at  least. 
Women,  when  thev  are  really  dis- 
appointed, rarely  show  it,  and  per- 
haps he  felt  a  little  hurt  to  observe 
how  readily,  and  with  what  apparent 
goodwill,  Miss  Algernon  resumed 
her  out-of-doors  attire.  He  felt 
hardly  sure  of  his  ground  yet, 
or  he  might  have  begun  to  sulk  in 
earnest  No  bad  plan  either,  for 
such  little  misunderstandings  bring 
on  explanations,  reconciliations,  de- 
clarations, all  sorts  of  vexations, 
every  day  I 

Ladies  are  stanch  believers  in 
luck,  and  leave  much  to  chance,  with 
a  devout  faith  that  it  will  serve  them 
at  their  need.  I  imagine  Nina 
thought  it   quite   in   the   natural 


ILar  N. 


181 


ooone  of  eTents  that  a  dirty  boy 
sfaoald  enter  the  icom  at  this  jano- 
tnre  and  deliver  a  note  to  Simon^ 
which  called  forth  all  his  enemies 
and  sympathies  in  a  moment.  The 
note,  folded  in  a  hurry,  written  with 
a  pencil,  was  from  a  brother  artist, 
and  ran  thos — 

'  DxAB  Simon,— Gome  and  see  me 
if  you  can.  On  my  back!  Two 
doctors.  Not  going  to  be  nibbed 
oat,  bat  beastly  seedy  all  the  same.' 

'When  was  he  taken  ill?  Who's 
attending  him?  Anybody  taking 
oare  of  him?  What  o'clock  is  it 
now?  Tell  him  I'll  be  there  in  five 
minutes.'  Simon  delivered  himself 
of  these  sentences  in  a  breath,  and 
then  glanced  from  Nina  to  Dick 
Stan  more. 

'  I  dare  say  you  woaldn't  mind,' 
said  he.  '  I  must  go  to  this  i)oor 
fellow,  and  if  I  find  him  very  ill  I 
may  be  detained  till  evening.  If 
you've  time,  Stanmore,  could  yoa 
see  Miss  Algernon  as  far  as  the 
boat?  She'll  do  yery  well  then, 
but  we  don't  like  her  to  be  wander- 
ing about  London  by  herself.' 

It  is  possible  this  idea  may  have 
saggested  itself  to  the  persons  most 
concerned,  for  all  that  they  seemed 
so  supremely  unconscious,  and  as  if 
the  arrangement,  though  a  sensible 
one  and  convenient  no  doubt^  were 
a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to 
tiiemselves. 

Dick  'would  be  delighted/  of 
oonrse;  though  he  tried  not  to 
look  so;  and  Nina  'couldn't  think 
of  giving  Mr.  Stanmore  so  much 
trouble.'  Nevertheless,  within  ten 
minutes  the  two  were  turning  into 
Oxford  Street  in  a  hansom  cab;  and 
fdthough  they  said  very  little,  being 
indeed  in  a  vehicle  which  jolted, 
swung,  and  rattled  inordinately,  I 
have  not  the  least  doubt  they  en- 
joyed then:  drive. 

Tbey  enjoyed  the  river  steamer, 
too,  which  seems  equally  strange, 
with  its  narrow  deck,  its  tangible 
smoke,  its  jerks  and  snorts,  and 
throbbing  vibrations,  as  it  worked 
its  way  against  the  tide.  They  had 
never  before  been  alone  tc^ether, 
and  the  situation,  though  delight- 
ful, was  at  first  somewhat  embar- 
rassing, because  tbey  were  in  ear- 


nest The  restraint,  however,  soon 
wore  off,  and  with  tongues  once 
loosened  there  was  no  lack  of  matter 
for  their  employment  How  beauti- 
ful, how  interesting,  how  pic- 
turesque everything  seemed  to  have 
grown  all  at  once:  the  Hooses  of 
Parliament— the  bridges— tiie  dull, 
broad  surface  of  the  river,  grey, 
with  a  muddy  tinge— the  low,  level 
banks— the  blunt-nosed  barges — 
their  fellow-passengers — the  engi- 
neer—the boy  with  the  mop— and 
the  dingy  funnel  of  the  steamer 
itself. 

How  mysterious  the  charm  that 
lurks  in  association  of  ideas! 
What  magic  it  imparts  to  the 
commonest  actions,  the  most  vulgar 
objects  of  life!  What  a  heartache 
on  occasions  has  it  not  caused  you 
or  me  ?  One  of  us  cannot  see  a 
woman  fitting  on  her  gloves  with- 
out a  pang.  To  another  there  is 
a  memory  and  a  sorrow  in  the  flirt 
of  a  fan,  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  the 
grinding  of  a  barrel-organ,  or  the 
slang  of  a  street  song.  The  sting- 
ing-nettle crops  up  in  every  bed  of 
flowers  we  raise;  the  bitter  tonic 
flavours  all  we  eat  and  drink.  I 
dare  say  Werther  could  not  munch 
his  bread  and  batter  for  years  in 
common  comfort  because  of  Char- 
lotte. Would  it  not  be  wiser  for  us  to 
ignore  the  Charlottes  of  life  alto- 
gether, and  stick  to  the  bread  and 
butter? 

Too  soon  that  dingy  steamer 
reached  its  place  of  disembarka- 
tion—too soon,  at  least,  for  certain 
of  its  passengers;  and  yet  in  their 
short  voyage  up  the  river  each  of 
these  two  had  passed  the  portal  of  a 
paradise,  through  which,  amongst 
all  its  gaudy  and  luxuriant  vege- 
tation, you  may  search  for  the  tree 
of  knowledge  in  vain.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken  by  either  that  coald 
bear  the  direct  interpretation  of  love- 
making,  yet  each  felt  that  the  Ru- 
bicon had  been  passed  which  must 
never  be  recrossed  dry-shod  again. 

Dick  paid  his  respects,  as  seemed 
but  right  and  proper,  to  the  Misses 
Perkins,  who  voted  him  an  exceed- 
ingly agreeable  young  man;  and 
this  was  the  more  tolerant  on  their 
part  that  he  found  very  little  to 
say,  and  had  the  good  taste  to  be 

X   2 


182 


M.0rN. 


ft  Tery  short  time  in  saying  it 
They  asked  him  indeed  to  remain 
for  dinner,  and,  noiwithatanding 
their  hospitable  inclinations,  were 
no  donbt  relieved  when  he  declined. 
He  had  gained  some  experience, 
yon  see,  from  his  previous  worship 
of  Miss  Brace,  which  now  stood 
him  in  good  stead,  for  in  affiiirs  of 
love,  as  of  hononr,  a  man  conducts 
his  second  with  more  skill  and 
Bavoir  /aire  than  his  first 

The  world  seemed  to  have 
changed  by  inagic  while  he  went 
back  to  London.  It  felt  like  the 
breakiog  np  of  a  frost,  when  all  is 
warmth  and  softness  and  vitality 
once  more.  He  could  have  talked 
to  himself,  and  laughed  aloud  for 
very  joy. 

But  Nina  went  to  her  room,  and 
cried  as  she  had  not  cried  since  she 
was  a  little  child,  shedding  tears  of 
mingled  sweetness  and  sorrow,  rap* 
ture  and  remorse.  Her  eyes  were 
opened  now  in  her  new-found  hap- 
piness, and  she  foresaw  the  crushing 
blow  that  happiness  must  inflict 
on  the  oldest,  kindest,  dearest  of 
friends. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
took  herself  to  task  and  examined 
her  own  heart.  What  a  joyous 
heart  it  was  I  And  yet  how  could 
she  be  so  inhuman  as  to  admit  a 
pleasure  which  must  be  cruelly 
prodactive  of  another's  pain  ?  Here 
was  a  person  whom  she  had  known, 
as  it  were,  but  yesterday,  and  his 
lightest  word  or  glance  ha^  already 
become  dearer  to  her  than  the 
wealth  of  care  and  afieotion  which 
tended  her  from  childhood,  which 
would  be  about  her  to  her  grave. 
It  was  infamous!  she  told  herself, 
and  yet  it  was  surpassingly  sweet! 
Yes,  she  loved  this  man — this 
brown-haired,  broad-shouldered  Mr. 
Stanmore,  of  whose  existence  a  fort- 
night ago  she  had  been  perfectly 
unconscious,  and  in  that  love  she 
learned  to  appreciate  and  under- 
stand the  affection  loyal,  true- 
hearted  Simon  lavished  on  herself. 
Was  he  to  be  sacrificed  to  this  mere 
stranger?  Never.  Bather  she 
would  sacrifice  herself.  But  the 
tears  flowed  faster  to  think  that  it 
would  indeed  be  a  sacrifice,  an 
offering  up  of  youth,  beauty,  hope. 


hftppiness  for  life.  Then  she  dried 
her  eyes,  and  went  down  on  her 
knesB  to  pray  at  her  bedside ;  and 
so  rose  up,  making  certain  stem 
resolutions,  which  it  is  only  &ir  to 
state  she  afterwards  kept — ^hke  a 
woman! 

With  the  view,  doubtless,  of  put- 
ting these  in  practice,  she  induced 
Simon  to  walk  with  her  on  the 
lawn  after  tea,  while  the  stars  were 
twinkling  dimly  through  a  soft, 
misty  sky,  and  the  lasy  nver  lapped 
and  gurgled  against  the  garden 
banks.  He  accompanied  her,  no- 
thing loth,  for  he  too  had  spent  the 
last  hour  in  hard  painful  confiict, 
making,  also,  stern  rerolutions, 
which  he  kept—like  a  man !  '  You 
found  him  better,'  she  said,  alluding 
to  the  cause  of  his  delay  in  return- 
ing home.  Tm  so  glad.  If  he 
hadn't  been,  you*d  have  stayed  with 
him  all  night,  I  know.  Simon,  I 
think  youVe  the  best  and  the  kindest 
person  in  the  world.' 

Here  was  an  opening.  Was  she 
disappointed,  or  not,  that  he  took 
so  little  advantage  of  it? 

'We  must  all  help  each  other,. 
Nina,'  said  he;  'that's  the  way  to 
make  life  easy  and  to  stifle  sorrows, 
if  we  have  them,  of  our  own.' 

'  You  ought  never  to  have  a  sor- 
row,' she  broke  in.  *  Ycu,  who- 
always  think  of  others  before  your- 
self—you deserve  to  be  so  happy* 
And,  Simon,  sometimes  I  think 
you're  not,  and  it  makes  me 
wretched;  and  I'd  do  anything  in 
the  world  to  please  you ;  anything, 
if~if  it  wasn  t  too  hard  a  task,  you 
know,' 

She  had  been  so  eager  to  make 
her  Facrifice  and  get  it  over  that 
she  hurried  inconsiderately  to  the 
brink,~then,  like  a  timid  bather, 
stopped  short,  hesitating— the  water 
looked  so  cold  and  dark  and  deep. 

The  lightest  touch  from  his  hand 
would  have  plunged  her  in,  over- 
head. He  would  have  held  it  in 
the  fire  rather,  like  the  Boman 
hero,  till  it  shrivelled  into  ashes. 

'My  happiness  can  never  be 
apart  from  yours,'  he  said,  ten- 
derly and  sadly.  'Yet  I  think  I 
know  now  that  yours  is  not  en- 
tirely bound  up  in  mine.  Am  I 
right,  Nina?' 


H.  or  N. 


18S 


*I  would  do  aDythiBg  in  the 
world  for  you— anything/  she  mur- 
.morod,  taking  refage,  as  we  all  do 
at  saoh  times,  in  vain  repetition. 

They  had  reached  the  drawing- 
room  window,  and  she  turned  aside, 
as  if  she  meant  to  go  in.  He  took 
2ier  hand  lightly  in  his  own,  and 
led  her  back  towards  the  river.  It 
was  very  dark,  and  neither  could 
read  the  expression  of  the  other's 
lace. 

'  I  have  but  one  earnest  desire  in 
the  world,'  said  he,  speaking  dis- 
tinctly bat  very  low.  '  It  is  to  see 
jou  happily  settled  in  life.  I  never 
had  a  sister  nor  a  daughter,  Nina. 
YovL  have  stood  me  in  the  stead  of 
lx)th ;  and— and  I  shall  never  have 
awife.' 

She  knew  what  he  meant  The 
quiet,  sad,  yet  uncomplaining  tone 
cut  her  to  the  heart  '  It's  a  shame  1 
it's  a  shame!'  she  murmured. 
'Simon,  Simon.  Tell  me;  don't 
you  think  me  the  worst,  the  most 
ungrateful,  the  most  horrible  girl 
in  the  world?' 

He  spoke  cheerfully  now,  and 
even  laughed.  'Very  ungrateful,' 
he  repeated,  pressing  her  hand 
kindly;  'and  very  detestable,  un- 
less you  tell  me  the  truth.  Ninai» 
•dear  Nina,  confide  in  me  as  if  I  was 
jour  —  well  —  your  grandmother  I 
Will  that  do?  I  think  there's  a 
somebody  we  saw  to-day  who  likes 
you  very  much.  He's  a  good  fd- 
low,  and  to  be  trusted,  I  can  swear. 
Don't  you  tbink,  dear,  though  you 
haven't  known  him  long,  that  you 
like  him  a  little — more  than  a  little, 
alreadjf?' 

'  Oh,  Simon,  what  a  brute  I  am, 
and  what  a  fool !'  answered  the  girl, 
bursting  into  teara  And  then  the 
painter  knew  that  his  ship  had  gone 
down,  and  the  waters  had  closed  over 
it  for  evermore.  That  evening  his 
aunts  thought  Simon  in  better 
spirits  than  usual.  Nina,  though 
«he  went  to  bed  before  the  rest^  had 
never  found  him  kinder,  more 
cheerful,  more  considerate.  He 
spoke  playfully,  good-humouredly, 
on  various  subjects,  and  kissed  the 
girl's  forehead  gravely,  almost  re- 
verently, when  she  wished  him 
good-night 
It  was  such  a  caress  as  a  man 


lays  on  the  dead  &oe  that  6hall 
never  look  in  his  own  again. 

The  painter  slept  but  little— per- 
haps not  at  alt  And  who  shall 
tell  how  hard  he  wrestled  with  his 
great  sorrow  daring  those  long 
hours  of  darkness,  'even  to  the 
breaking  of  the  day  T  No  angel  sat 
by  his  bed  to  comfort  him,  nor 
spirit-voices  whispered  solace  in  his 
ear,  nor  spirit  sympathy  poured 
balm  into  the  cold,  aching,  omp^ 
heart;  but  I  have  my  own  opinion 
on  such  matters,  and  I  would  fain 
believe  that  struggles  and  suffer- 
ings like  these  are  neither  wasted 
nor  forgotten,  but  are  treasured 
and  recorded  by  kindred  beings  of 
a  higher  nature,  as  the  training 
that  alone  fits  poor  humanity,  then 
noblest,  when  most  sorrow rul,  to 
enter  the  everlasting  gates  and  join 
the  radiant  legions  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ANONVMOUS. 

Lord  Bearwarden  finds  himself 
very  constantly  on  Guard  just  at 
present  Her  ladyship  is  of  opinion 
that  he  earns  his  pay  more  tho- 
roughly than  any  day-labourer  his 
wages.  I  do  not  myself  consider 
that  helmet,  cairass,  and  leather 
breeches  form  the  appropriate  ap- 
pliances of  a  hero,  when  termi- 
nating in  a  pair  of  red  morocco 
slippers.  Nevertheless,  in  all  repre- 
sentations purporting  to  be  life-like, 
effect  must  be  subservient  to  cor- 
rectness of  detail :  and  such  was  tiie 
costume  in  which  his  lordship,  on 
duty  at  the  Horse  Quaids,  received 
a  despatch  that  seemed  to  cause 
him  considerable  surprise  and  vexa- 
tion. 

The  guard  coming  off  was  mus- 
tering lielow.  The  relief  coming  on 
was  already  moving  gallantly  down 
Begent  Street,  to  the  admiration  of 
all  beholders.  Armed  was  his 
lordship  to  the  teeth,  though  not  to 
the  toes,  for  his  bfttman  waited 
respectfully  with  a  pair  of  high 
jack- boots  in  his  hand,  and  still  his 
officer  read,  and  frowned,  and  pulled 
his  moustache,  and  swore,  as  the 
saying  is,  like  a  trooper^  which»  if 


184 


Jf.   W  Nm 


be  had  only  diaim  on  his  boots, 
would  not  bftTO  been  so  much  ont 
of  cbaraoter  at  the  time. 

Onoe  again  he  read  it  from  end 
to  end  ere  he  ommpled  the  note  in 
under  his  coirasB  for  fatnre  con* 
aideration.    It  lan  as  £i^owb  : — 

*  My  Lobd,  —  Tour  lordship's 
manly  and  generous  character  has 
obtained  for  joa  many  well-wishers. 
Of  these  the  writer  is  ooe  of  the 
most  sincere.  It  grieves  and  angers 
him  to  see  yonr  lordship's  honest 
nature  deoeiyed,  your  domestic  hap- 
piness destroyed,  your  noble  con- 
fidence abused.  The  writer,  my 
lord,  is  your  true  friend.  Thoagh 
too  late  for  rescue  it  is  not  too  late 
for  redress;  and  he  has  no  power 
of  communicating  to  your  l(»dship 
suspicions  which  now  amount  to 
certainty  but  by  the  means  at 
present  employed.  Anonymous  let- 
ters are  usually  the  resource  of  a 
liar  and  slanderer;  but  there  is  no 
rule  without,  exception;  and  the 
writer  can  bring  proof  of  every  syl- 
lable he  asserts.  If  yonr  lordship 
will  use  your  own  eyes,  watch  and 
wait  She  has  deceived  others; 
why  not  yout  Bemers  Street, 
Oxford  Street,  is  no  crowded  tho- 
Tougbfiiire.  Why  should  your  lord- 
ship abstain  from  walking  there  any 
afternoon  between  four  and  five? 
Be  wary.    Watch  and  wait' 

*  Blsst  his  impudence!'  muttered 
Lord  Bearwardeu,  now  booted  to  the 
thigh,  and  clattering  down  stairs  to 
take  command  of  his  guard. 

With  zealous  subalterns,  an  ex- 
perienced corporal-major,  well- 
drilled  men,  and  horses  tbat  knew 
their  way  home,  it  required  little 
military  skill  to  move  his  handfal 
of  cavalry  back  to  barracks,  so  Lord 
Bearwarden  came  off  duty  without 
creating  scandal  or  ridicule  in  the 
regiment,  but  I  doubt  if  he  knew 
exactly  what  he  was  doing,  till  he 
amved  in  plain  clothes  within  a 
few  paces  of  his  own  door.  Here 
he  paused  for  a  few  minutes'  reflec- 
tion before  entering  his  house,  and 
was  surprised  to  see  at  the  street 
corner  a  lady  extremely  like  his 
wife  in  earnest  conversation  with  a 
man  in  rags  who  had  the  appear- 


ance of  a  professional  b^:gar.  The 
lady,  as  far  as  he  could  judge  at  that 
distance,  seemed  tobeoffering  money^ 
which  the  man  by  his  actions  ob- 
vionsly  refused.  Lord  Bearwarden 
walked  briskly  towards  them,  a  good 
deal  puzzled,  and  ^ad  to  have  his 
attention  distracted  from  his  own 
albirs. 

It  was  a  long  street,  and  the 
couple  separated  before  he  reaehed 
them,  the  man  disappearing  round 
the  comer,  while  the  lady  advanced 
steadily  towards  himself.  When 
within  a  few  paces,  she  lifted  ii 
thick  double  veil  and  he  found  he 
had  not  been  mistakotL 

Maud  was  pale  and  calm  as  usual, 
but  to  those  who  knew  her  well, 
recent  agitation  wonld  have  been 
betrayed  by  the  lowering  of  her 
eyebrows,  and  an  unusual  compres- 
sion of  the  lines  about  her  mouth. 

He  knew  her  better  than  she 
thought,  and  did  not  fail  to  remark 
these  signs  of  a  recent  storm,  but,  as 
usual,  refrained  from  asking  for  the 
confidence  it  was  his  right  to  receive. 

'  You're  out  early,  my  lady,*  said 
he,  in  a  careless  tone.  '  Been  for  an 
appetite  against  luncheon-time,  eh  ? 
That  beggar  just  now  didn't  seem 
hungry  at  any  rate.  It  looked  to 
me  as  if  you  were  offering  him 
money,  and  he  wouldn't  ta^  it 
That's  quite  a  new  trick  in  the 
trade.' 

She  glanced  quickly  in  his  feoe 
with  something  almost  of  reproach. 
It  was  a  hateful  life  this,  and  even 
now,  she  thought,  if  he  would  ques- 
tion her  kindly,  she  could  find  it  in 
her  heart  perhaps  to  tell  him  alL 
All !  How  she  nad  deceived  him, 
and  promised  herself  to  another, 
and  to  get  rid  of  that  other,  only 
for  a  time,  had  rendered  herself 
amenable  to  the  law,  had  been  guilty 
of  actual  crime— had  sunk  to  fed 
the  very  slave  of  a  felon,  the  lowest 
refuse  of  society.  How  she,  Lady 
Bearwarden,  had  within  the  last  ten 
minutes  been  threatened  by  this 
ruffian,  been  compelled  to  submit 
to  his  insolence,  to  make  terms  with 
his  authority,  and  to  promise  him 
another  interview  that  very  after- 
noon. How  every  hour  of  her  life 
was  darkened  by  terror  of  his  pre- 
sence and  dread  of  his  revenge.    It 


M,or  N» 


186 


wasQnheaniof!  Unbeamblel  She 
would  make  a  clean  breafit  of  it  on 
the  first  opportunity. 

'  Let's  go  in,  dear/  she  said,  with 
more  of  softness  and  affection  than 
was  hor  habit  when  addressing  her 
husband.  'Luncheon  is  almost 
ready.  I'm  so  glad  you  got  away 
early  from  barracks.  I  see  so  little 
of  yon  now.  Never  mind.  It  will 
be  all  right  next  week.  We  shall 
have  two  more  captains  back  from 
leave  to  help  us.  You  see  I'm  be- 
ginning to  know  the  roister  almost 
as  well  as  the  Adjutant  himself.' 

It  pleased  him  that  she  should 
show  an  interest  in  these  professional 
details.  He  liked  to  hear  such  mili- 
tary terms  of  the  orderly-room  from 
those  pretty  lips,  and  he  would  have 
replied  with  something  unusually 
anectionate,  and  therefore  exceed- 
ingly precious,  but  that,  as  husband 
and  wife  reached  their  own  door, 
they  found  standing  there  to  greet 
them  the  pale  wasted  face  and  at- 
tenuated figure  of  Tom  Ryfe. 

He  saluted  Lady  Bearwarden 
gravely,  but  with  perfect  confi- 
dence, and  she  was  obliged  to  give 
him  her  hand,  though  she  felt  as  if 
she  could  have  stnuigled  him  with 
pleasure,  then  and  there,  by  the 
scraper.  Her  husband  clapped  him 
heartily  on  the  back.  '  Glad  to  see 
you,  Tom,'  Bald  he;  'I  heard  you 
were  ill  and  called  to  inquire,  but 
they  wouldn't  let  me  disturb  you. 
Been  devilish  seedy,  haven't  you? 
Don't  look  quite  in  form  yet  Come 
in  and  have  some  luncheon.  Doctors 
all  tell  one  to  keep  up  the  system 
now-a^days.' 

Poor  Ijidy  Bearwarden  I  Here 
was  another  of  her  avengers,  risen, 
as  it  seemed,  from  the  dead,  and  she 
must  speak  kind  words,  find  false 
smiles,  bid  him  to  her  table,  and 
treat  him  as  an  honoured  guest. 
Whatever  happened,  too,  she  could 
not  endure  to  leave  him  alone  with 
Bearwarden.  Who  could  tell  what 
diBckwures  might  come  out?  She 
was  walking  on  a  mine,  so  she 
backed  her  husband's  invitation, 
and  herself  led  the  way  into  the 
dining-room  where  luncheon  was 
ready,  not  daring  even  to  go  up- 
stairs and  take  her  bonnet  off  before 
she  sat  down. 


Mr.  Byfe  was  less  communicative 
than  usual  about  himself,  and  spoke 
as  little  to  her  ladyship  as  seamed 
compatible  with  the  ordinary  forms 
of  politeness.  His  object  was  to 
lull  her  suspicions  and  put  her  off 
her  guard.  Nevertheless,  with  pain- 
ful attention  i^e  watched  every 
glance  of  his  eye,  every  turn  of  his 
features,  hanging  eagerly,  nervously 
on  every  word  he  said. 

Tom  had  laid  his  plan  of  attack, 
and  now  called  on  the  lately-married 
couple,  that  he  might  reconnoitre 
his  ground  before  bringing  up  his 
forces.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  a  man  of  Mr.  Rjfe's  resources 
would  long  remain  in  ignorance  of 
the  real  truth,  after  detecting,  as  he 
believed  at  the  time.  Lady  Bear- 
warden and  Dick  Stanmore  side  by 
side  in  a  hansom  cab. 

Ere  twenty-four  hours  had  elapsed 
he  had  learned  the  exact  state  of  the 
case,  and  had  satisfied  himself  of  the 
extraordinary  resemblance  between 
Miss  Algernon  and  the  woman  he 
had  resolved  to  persecute  without 
remorEC.  In  this  resemblance  he 
saw  an  engine  with  which  he  hoped 
to  work  her  ladyship's  utter  de- 
struction, and  then  (Tom's  heart 
leapt  within  him  even  now  at  the 
thought),  ruined,  lonely,  desolate, 
when  the  whole  world  turned  from 
her,  she  might  leam  to  appreciate 
his  devotion,  might  take  shelter  at 
last  with  the  only  heart  open  to 
receive  her  in  her  uiame. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  Tom's 
feelings  for  the  woman  he  so  ad- 
mired were  of  love  or  hate. 

He  saw  through  Lord  Bearwar- 
den's  nature  thoroughly,  for  of  him, 
too,  he  had  made  it  his  busioeBs  to 
inquire  into  all  the  tendencies,  all 
the  antecedents.  A  high  fastidious 
spirit,  jealous,  because  sensitive,  yet 
far  too  proud  to  admit,  much  less 
indulge  that  jealousy,  seemed  of  all 
others  the  easiest  to  deceive.  The 
hide  of  the  rhinoceros  is  no  con- 
temptible gift,  and  a  certain  blunt- 
ness,  I  n?ight  say,  coarseness  of  cha- 
racter, enables  a  man  to  go  through 
the  world  comfortably  and  happily, 
unvexed  by  those  petty  stings  and 
bites  and  irritations  that  worry 
thinner  skins  to  death.  With  Lord 
Bearwarden  to  suspect  was  to  fret 


136 


M.tn-N. 


and  ponder  and  conceal,  haling  and 
despising  himeelf  the  while.  He 
had  other  points,  besides  his  taste  for 
soldiering,  in  common  with  Othello. 

On  snch  a  man  an  anonymous 
letter  acted  like  a  blister,  cliogiog, 
drawlDg,  inflaming  all  round  the 
affected  part  Nobody  in  theoiy  so 
utterly  de^^pised  these  productions. 
For  nobody  in  practice  did  they 
produce  so  disastrous  an  effect. 
And  then  he  had  been  deceived 
once  before.  He  had  lost  his  trust, 
not  so  much  in  the  other  sex  (for  all 
men  think  every  woman  false  but 
one),  as  in  himself.  He  had  been 
outraged,  hurt,  humbled,  and  the 
bold  confidence,  the  cUuh  with  which 
such  games  should  be  played  were 
gone.  There  is  a  buoyancy  gra- 
dually lost  as  we  cross  the  country 
of  life,  which  is  perhaps  worth  more 
than  all  the  gains  of  eiperience. 
And  in  the  real  pursuit,  as  in  the 
mimic  hurry  of  the  chase,  it  is  wise 
to  avoid  too  hazardous  a  venture. 
The  hunter  that  has  once  been 
overhead  in  a  brook  never  faces 
water  very  heartily  again. 

Tom  could  see  that  his  charm  was 
working,  that  the  letter  he  had 
written  produced  all  the  effect  he 
desired.  His  host  was  obviously 
preoccupied,  absent  in  manner,  and 
even  flurried,  at  least  for  him.  More- 
over, he  drank  brown  sherry  out  of 
a  claret-glass,  which  looked  like 
being  uncomfortable  somewhere 
insida  Lady  Bearwarden,  grave 
and  unusually  silent,  watched  her 
husband  with  a  sad  wistful  air,  that 
goaded  Tom  to  madness.  How  he 
had  loved  that  pale  proud  face,  and 
it  was  paler  and  prouder  and  love- 
lier than  ever  to-day  1 

'I've  seen  some  furniture  you'd 
like  to  look  at,  my  lord,'  said  Tom, 
in  bis  old,  underbred  manner. 
'  There's  a  chair  I'd  buy  directly 
if  I'd  a  house  to  put  it  in,  or  a  lady 
to  sit  on  it;  and  a  carved  ebony 
frame  it's  worth  going  all  the  dis- 
tance to  see.  If  >ou'd  nothing  to 
do  this  afternoon,  I'd  be  proud  to 
show  them  you.  Twenty  minutes' 
drive  from  here  in  a  hansom.' 

'  Will  you  come  ?'  asked  Lord 
Bearwarden,  kindly,  of  his  wife. 
'  You  might  take  us  in  the  ba- 
rouche.' 


She  seemed  strangely  agitated  by 
80  natural  a  propood,  and  neither 
gentleman  fsdled  to  remark  her  dis- 
order. 

'  1  shall  like  it  very  much,'  she 
stammered.  *At  least  I  should. 
But  I  can't  this  afternoon.  I— 
I've  got  an  engagement  at  the  other 
end  of  the  town.* 

'  Which  is  the  other  end  of  the 
town?'  said  Lord  Bearwarden, 
laughing.  '  You've  not  told  us 
your  end  yet,  Tom;'  but  seeing 
his  wife's  colour  fade  more  and 
more  he  purposely  filled  Tom's 
glass  to  distract  his  attention. 

Her  engagement  was  indeed  of  no 
pleasant  nature.  It  was  to  hold 
another  interview  with  '  Gentleman 
Jim,'  in  which  she  hoped  to  prevail 
on  him  to  leave  the  country  by  offer- 
ing the  largest  sum  of  money  she 
could  raise  from  all  her  resources. 
Once  released  from  his  persecutions, 
she  thought  she  could  breathe  a  little 
and  face  Tom  Ryfe  well  enough 
single-handed,  should  be  try  to 
poiBon  her  hust)and*s  mind  against 
nor— an  attempt  she  thought  him 
likely  enough  to  maka  It  was  Jim 
she  feared— Jim,  whom  drink  and 
crime  and  an  infatuation  of  which 
she  was  herself  the  cause,  had 
driven  almost  mad — she  could  see 
it  in  his  eye — who  was  reckless  of 
her  character  as  of  his  own— who 
insisted  on  her  giving  him  these 
meetings  two  or  three  times  a- week, 
and  was  capable  of  any  folly,  any 
outrage,  if  she  disappointed  him. 
Well,  to-day  should  end  it!  On 
that  she  was  determined.  If  he 
persisted  in  refususg  her  bribe,  she 
would  throw  herself  on  Lord  Bear- 
warden's  mercy  and  tell  him  the 
whole  truth. 

Maud  had  more  self-command 
than  most  women,  and  could  hold 
her  own  even  in  so  false  a  position 
as  this, 

'  I  must  get  another  gown,'  she 
said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  ig- 
noring Tom's  presence  altogether 
as  she  addressed  her  husband 
across  the  table.  '  I've  nothing  to 
wear  at  the  Den,  if  it's  cold  when 
we  'go  down  next  week,  so  I  mmt 
call  at  Stripe  and  Bainbow's  to-day, 
and  1  won't  keep  you  waiting  in  the 
carriage  all  the  time  I'm  shopping.' 


•«0io* 


M.arN. 


187 


He  seemed  qtiite  satisfied :  '  Then 
111  take  B^fe  to  my  salking-room/ 
said  he, '  and  wish  you  good-bye  till 
dinner-time.  Tom,  you  shall  have 
the  best  cigar  in  England — I've 
kept  them  five  years,  and  they're 
strong  enough  to  blow  your  head 
off  now.' 

So  Tom,  with  a  formal  bow  to 
Lady  Bear  warden,  followed  his  host 
into  a  snug  but  dark  apartment  at 
the  back,  deyoted,  as  was  at  once 
detected  by  its  smelly  to  the  con- 
sumption of  tobacco. 

"While  he  lit  a  cigar,  he  could  not 
help  thinking  of  the  days,  not  so 
long  ago,  when  Maud  would  haye 
followed  him,  at  least  with  her  eyes, 
out  of  the  room,  but  consoled  him- 
self by  the  reflection  that  his  tarn 
was  coming  now,  and  so  smoked 
quietly  on  with  a  firm,  cruel  deter- 
mination to  do  his  worst. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  before 
they  had  finished  their  cigars  these 
gentlemen  heard  the  roll  of  her 
ladyship's  carriage  as  it  took  her 
away ;  also  that  a  few  minutes  later, 

Csing  Stripe  and  Rainbow's  in  a 
som  cab,  they  saw  the  same 
carriage,  standing  empty  at  the  door 
of  that  gorgeous  and  magnificent 
emporium. 

'Don't  get  out,  Tom,'  said  his 
lordship,  stopping  the  hansom, 
'I only  want  to  ask  a  question — I 
shan't  be  a  minute;'  .and  in  two 
s^des  be  was  across  the  pavement 
and  within  the  folding-doors  of  the 
shop. 

Perhaps  the  question  he  meant  to 
ask  was  of  his  own  common-sense, 
and  its  answer  seemed  hard  to 
accept  philosophically.  Perhaps  he 
never  expected  to  find  what  he  went 
to  look  for,  yet  was  weak  enough  to 
feel  disappointed  all  the  same— for 
he  had  turned  very  pale  when  he 
re-entered  the  cab,  and  he  lit  an- 
other cigar  without  speaking. 

Though  her  carriage  stood  at  the 
door,  he  had  searched  the  whole  of 
Stripe  and  Rainbow's  shop  for  Lady 
Bearwarden  in  vain. 

Tom  R}fe  was  not  without  a 
certain  mother-wit,  sharpened  by 
his  professional  education.  He  sus- 
pected the  truth,  recalling  the  agi- 
tated manner  of  his  hostess  at 
luncheon,  when  her  afternoon's  em- 


ployment came  under  notice.  Will 
it  be  believed  that  he  experienced 
an  actual  pang,  to  think  she  should 
have  some  assignation,  some  secret 
of  which  his  lordship  must  be  kept 
in  ignorance — that  he  should  have 
felt  more  jealous  of  this  unknown, 
this  possible  rival,  than  of  her  law- 
ful husband  now  sitting  by  his  side! 
He  was  no  bad  engineer,  however> 
and  having  laid  his  train,  waited 
patiently  for  the  mine  to  explode  at 
Its  proper  time. 

'  What  an  outlandish  part  of  the 
town  we  are  getting  to,'  observed 
Lord  Bearwarden,  after  several 
minutes'  silenbe;  'your  furniture- 
man  seems  to  li?e  at  the  other  end 
of  the  world.' 

'  If  you  want  to  buy  "things  at 
first  hand  you  must  go  into  Oxford 
Street,'  answered  Tom.  'Let's 
get  out  and  walk,  my  lord ;  it's  so 
crowded  here  we  shall  make  better 
way.' 

So  they  paid  their  hansom,  and 
threading  the  swarms  of  passengers 
on  the  footway,  turned  into  Berners 
Street  arm-in-arm. 

Tom  walked  very  slow  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  but  made  himself  plea- 
sant enough,  talking  on  a  variety  of 
subjects,  and  boasting  his  own  good 
taste  in  matters  of  curiosity,  espe- 
cially old  furniture. 

'  I  wish  you  could  have  induced 
the  viscountess  to  come  with  us,' 
said  Tom;  *we  should  have  been 
all  the  better  for  her  help.  But 
ladies  have  so  many  engagement 
in  the  afternoon  we  know  nothing 
about,  that  it's  impossible  to  secure 
their  company  without  several  days' 
notice.  I'll  be  bound  her  ladyship 
is  in  Stripe  and  Rainbow's  still. ' 

There  was  something  in  the 
casual  remark  that  jarred  on  Lord 
Bearwarden,  more  than  Tom's  ab- 
surd babit  of  thus  bestowing  her 
fall  title  on  his  wife  in  common  con- 
versation, though  even  that  pro- 
voked him  a  little  too ;  something 
to  set  him  thinking,  to  rouse  all 
the  pride  and  all  the  suspicion  of 
his  nature.  'The  viscountess,'  as 
Tom  called  her,  was  not  in  Stripe 
and  Rainbow's,  of  that  he  had  made 
himself  perfectly  certain  less  than 
half  an  hour  ago;  then  where  could 
she  be?    Why   this  secrecy^  this 


188 


M.arN. 


mystery,  tiiis  reterra  that  had  been 
growing  np  between  them  day  by 
day  ever  sinoe  their  marriage? 
What  ooneliuion  was  a  man  likdy 
to  arrive  at  who  had  lived  in  the 
world  of  London  from  boyhood,  and 
been  already  once  so  cmelly  de- 
ceived? His  blood  boiled;  and 
Tom,  whose  hand  rested  on  his  arm, 
felt  the  mosde  swell  and  qniver 
beneath  his  tonoh. 

Mr.  Byfe  had  timed  his  observa- 
tion well ;  the  two  gentlemen  were 
now  proceeding  slowly  np  Bemers 
Street,  and  had  arrived  nearly  oppo- 
site the  hoose  that  contained  Simon's 
painting-room,  its  hard-working 
artist,  its  frequent  visitcnr,  its  beau- 
tifal  sitter,  and  its  Fairy  Qoeen. 
Since  his  first  visit  there  Tom  Ryfe, 
in  person  or  through  his  emissaries, 
had  watched  the  place  strictly 
enough  to  have  become  familiar 
with  the  habits  of  its  inmates. 

Mr.  Stanmore's  trial  trip  with 
Miss  Algernon  proved  so  satis- 
&ctory,  that  the  journey  had  been 
repeated  on  the  same  terms  every 
day :  this  arrangement,  very  grati- 
fying to  the  persons  involved,  origi- 
nated indeed  with  Simon,  who  now 
went  regularly  after  work  to  pass 
a  few  hours  with  his  sick  friend. 
Thus,  to  see  these  two  young  people 
bowling  down  Bemers  Street  in  a 
hansom  cab,  about  five  o'clock, 
looking  supremely  happy  the  while, 
was  as  good  a  certainty  as  to  meet 
the    local    pot-boy,  or  the   post- 


Tom  Ryfe  manoeuvred  skilfully 
enongh  to  bring  his  man  on  the 
groxmd  precisely  at  the  right  mo- 
ment 

Still  harping  on  old  furniture,  he 
was  in  the  act  of  remarking  that 
'he  should  know  the  shop  again, 
though  he  had  forgotten  the  nmuber, 
and  that  it  must  be  a  few  doors 
higher  up,'  when  his  companion 
started,  nttered  a  tiemendous  exe- 
cration, and  struggling  to  free  him- 
self from  Tom's  arm,  holloaed  at 
an  unconscious  cabdriver  to  stop. 

'  What's  the  matter  ?  are  you  ill, 
my  lord  ?  exclaimed  his  companion, 
holding  on  to  him  with  all  his 
weight,  while  afifocting  great  anxiety 
and  alarm. 

'D ^n  you  I  let  me  goT   ex- 


claimed Ixnd  Bearwaiden,  nearly 
flinging  Tom  to  the  pavement  as 
he  shook  himself  free  and  tore  wildly 
down  the  street  in  vain  pursuit. 

He  returned  in  a  minuto  or  two, 
white,  scared,  and  breathless.  Pull- 
ing his  moustache  fiercely,  he  made 
a  gallant  effort  to  compose  himself; 
but  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  so 
changed,  Tom  looked  with  surprise 
inhisfiMO. 

'  Toa  saw  it  too,  TomI'  he  ssid 
at  last,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

'Saw  itl—saw  what?'  repeated 
Tom,  with  an  admirable  sasnmp- 
tion  of  ignorance,  innocence,  and 
dismsy. 

'Saw  Lady  Bearwarden  in  that 
cab  with  Dick  Stanmore  1'  answered 
his  lordship,  steadying  himself 
bravely  like  a  good  ship  in  a  breeze, 
and  growing  cooler  and  cooler,  ss 
was  his  nature  in  an  emergency. 

'Are  you  sure  of  it?— did  you 
see  her  £mm?  I  fancied  so  myself^ 
but  thought  I  must  be  mistaken* 
It  was  Mr.  Stanmore,  no  doubt,  but 
it  cannot  possibly  have  been  the 
Tisoounteas.' 

Tom  spoke  with  an  air  of  gravity, 
reflection,  and  profound  concern. 

'I  may  settle  with  him,  at  any 
rate  1'  said  Lord  Bearwarden.  '  Tom, 
you're  a  true  friend;  1  can  trust 
you  like  myself.  It*s  a  comfort  to 
have  a  friend,  Tom,  when  a  fellow's 
smsshed  up  like  this.  I  shall  besr 
it  well  enough  presently ;  hut  it's 
an  awful  facer,  old  boy.  I'd  have 
done  anything  for  that  woman — I 
tell  you,  anything !  I'd  have  cut  off 
my  right  hand  to  please  her.  And 
now  1— It's  not  because  she  doesn't 
care  for  me — I've  known  that  all 
along;  but  to  think  that  she's  like 
— ^lil^  those  poor  painted  devils  we 
met  just  now.  Like  them  I — she's  a 
million  times  worse!  Ob,  it's  hard 
to  bear !  Damnation  1  I  wmH  bear 
it  1  Somebody  will  have  to  give  an 
account  for  this!' 

'Tou  have  my  sympathy,'  said 
Tom,  in  a  low  respectful  voice,  for 
he  knew  hie  man  thoroughly ;  *  these 
things  won't  stand  talking  about; 
but  you  shall  have  my  assistance 
too,  in  any  and  every  way  you  re- 
quire. I'm  not  a  swell,  my  lord« 
but  I'll  stick  by  you  through  thick 
and  thin.' 


M.atS. 


139 


The  other  preBsed  bis  arm.  '  We 
mufit  do  Bomething  at  once/  said 
he.  '  I  will  go  up  to  banacks  now : 
eall  for  me  there  in  an  hour's  time; 
I  shall  have  decided  on  everything 
by  then.' 

So  Lord  Bfarwarden  carried  a 
sore  heart  hack  once  more  to  the 
old  familiar  scenes — ^through  the 
well-known  gate,  past  the  stalwart 
sentry,  amongst  all  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  profession  by  which 
he  set  snch  store.  What  a  mockery 
it  seemed  1 — how  hard,  how  cruel, 
and  how  unjust  1 

But  this  time  at  least,  he  felt,  he 
should  not  be  obliged  to  sit  down 
and  brood  over  his  injuries  without 
reprisals  or  redress. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PABTXD. 

'  Lady  Bearwarden's  carriage  had, 
without  doubt,  set  her  down  at 
Stripe  and  Rainbow's,  to  take  her 
ap  again  at  the  same  place  after 
waiting  there  for  so  long  a  period 
as  must  have  impressed  on  her 
servants  the  importance  of  their 
lady's  toilet,  and  the  careful  study 
she  bestowed  on  its  selection.  The 
tali  bay  horses  had  been  flicked  at 
least  a  hundred  times  to  make  them 
stand  out  and  show  themselves,  in 
the  form  London  coachmen  think  so 
imposing  to  passers-by.  The  foot- 
man had  yawned  as  often,  express- 
ing with  each  cortortxm  an  exces- 
sive longing  for  beer.  Many  street 
hojB  had  la?iBhed  tiieir  criticisms, 
&voarable  and  otherwise,  on  the 
wheels,  the  panels,  the  vamiBh,  the 
driver's  wig,  and  that  dignitary's 
1^,  whom  they  had  the  piesump- 
tion  to  address  as  'John.'  Diverse 
eonnoisseurs  on  the  pavement  had 
appraised  the  bay  horses  at  every 
conceivable  price— some  men  never 
can  pass  a  horse  or  a  woman  without 
ihinking  whether  they  would  like 
to  bargain  for  the  one  or  make  love 
to  the  other;  and  theanimals  them- 
selves seemed  to  have  interehanged 
many  confidential  whispers,  on  the 
anhjeot,  probably,  of  beuis, — when 
Lady  Bearwarden  reappeared,  to 
aaat  herself  in  the  carriage  and  give 
the  welcome  order, '  Home  P 


She  had  passed  what  the  French 
call  a  very  *  bad  little  quarter  of  an 
hour,'  and  the  storm  bad  left  its 
trace  on  her  pale  brow  and  delicate 
features.  They  bore,  nevertheless, 
that  firm,  resolute  expression  which 
Maud  must  have  inherited  from 
some  ironhearted  ancestor.  There 
was  the  same  stem  clash  of  the 
jaw,  the  same  hard,  determined 
frown  in  this,  their  lovely  descend- 
ant, that  confronted  Pkntagenet 
and  his  mailed  legions  on  the  plains 
by  Stirling,  that  stiffened  under  the 
wan  moonlight  on  CuUoden  Moor 
amongst  broken  claymores  and 
riven  targets,  and  tartans  all  stained 
to  the  deep-red  hues  of  the  Stuart 
with  his  clansmen's  blood. 

Softened,  weakened  by  a  tender, 
doubting  affection,  she  bad  yielded 
to  an  ignoble,  unworthy  coercion; 
but  it  had  been  put  on  too  hard  of 
late,  and  her  natural  character 
asserted  itself  under  the  pressure. 
She  was  in  that  mood  which  makes 
the  martyr  and  the  heroine,  some- 
times even  the  criminal,  but  on 
which,  deaf  to  reason  and  insensible 
to  fear,  threate  and  ai^umente  are 
equally  thrown  away. 

She  had  met  'Gentleman  Jim,' 
according  to  promise,  extorted  from 
her  by  menaces  of  everything  that 
oould  most  outrage  her  womanly 
leeliogs  and  tarnish  her  fur  &me 
before  the  world  —  had  met  him 
with  as  much  secrecy,  duplicity, 
and  caution  as  though  he  were  really 
the  favoured  lover  for  whom  she 
was  prepared  to  sacrifice  home, 
husband,  honour,  and  all.  The 
housebreaker  had  mounted  a  fresh 
disguise  for  the  occasion,  and  flat- 
tered himself,  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, that  he  k)oked  'quite  the 
gentleman  from  top  to  toe/  Gould 
he  have  known  how  this  high-bred 
woman  loathed  his  tawdry  oma- 
mente,  his  flash  attire,  his  silks  and 
velvets,  and  flushed  fiM»,  and  diri^, 
ringed  hands  and  greasy  hair ! 

Oould  he  have  knownl  He  did 
know,  and  it  maddened  him  till  he 
foi^t  reason,  prudence,  experience, 
common  sense — forgot  everything 
but  the  present  torture,  the  cruel 
longing  for  the  impossible,  the  ae- 
cursed  conviction  (  worse  than  ail,  the 
atings  of  drink  and  sin  and  semoise) 


140 


M.arN. 


that  this  one  wild,  hopeless  desire 
of  his  ezistenoe  could  never  be  at- 
tained. 

Therefore,  in  the  lonely  street 
to  which  a  cab  had  brought  her 
from  the  shop  where  her  carriage 
waited,  and  which  they  paced  to 
and  fro,  this  strangely  assorted  pair, 
he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings,  and 
broke  out  in  a  paroxysm  that 
roused  all  his  listener's  feelings  of 
anger,  resistance,  and  disgust.  She 
had  jast  offered  him  so  large  a  sum 
of  money  to  quit  England  for 
ever,  as  even  Jim,  for  whom, 
you  must  remember,  every  sove- 
reign represented  twenty  shil- 
lings' worth  of  beer,  conld  not 
refuse  without  a  qualm.  He  hesi- 
tated, and  Maud's  face  brightened 
with  a  ray  of  hope  that  quivered  in 
her  eyes  like  sunlight.  'To  sail 
next  week,'  said  he,  slowly;  'to 
take  my  last  look  of  ye  to-day. 
Them's  the  articles.  My  last  look, 
standing  there  in  the  daylight— a 
real  lady !  And  never  to  come  back 
no  more  1' 

She  clasped  her  hands— the  deli- 
cate gloved  hands,  with  their  heavy 
bracelets  at  the  wrists,  and  her 
Toice  shook  while  she  spoke. 
*  You'll  go;  won't  you?  It  will 
make  your  fortune;  and— and— I'll 
always  think  of  you  kindly— and — 
gratefully.  I  will  indeed ;  so  long 
as  you  keep  away.' 

He  sprang  like  a  horse  to  the  lash. 
'It's  h-llr  he  exclaimed.  'Put 
back  your  cursed  money.  I  won't 
do  it  I' 

'You  won't  do  it?' 

There  was  such  quiet  despair  in 
her  accents  as  drove  him  to  fury. 

'I  wont  do  itr  he  repeated  in 
a  low  voice  that  frightened  her. 
Til  rot  in  a  gaol  first  1— I'll  swing 
on  a  gallows  I— I'll  die  in  a  ditch  I 
Take  care  as  you  don't  give  me 
something  to  swing  for  1  Yes,  you, 
with  your  pale  face,  and  yocr  high- 
handed ways,  and  your  cold,  cruel 
heart  that  can  send  a  poor  devil  to 
the  other  end  o'  the  earth  with  a 
"pleasant  trip,  and  here's  your 
health,  my  lad,"  like  as  if  I  was 
goio'  across  to  Lambeth.  And  yet 
vou  stand  there  as  beautiful  as  a 
h'aogel;  and  I— I'm  a  fool,  I  am  1 
And— and  I  don't  know  what  keeps 


me  from  sUppin'  my  knife  into  that 
white  throat  o'  your*n,  except  it  is 
as  you  don't  look  not  a  morsel 
dashed,  nor  skeared,  you  don*t;  no 
more  than  you  was  that  first  night 
as  ever  I  see  yoor  faca  And  I 
wish  my  eyes  had  been  lime- blinded 
first,  and  I'd  been  dead  and  rotting 
in  my  grave.' 

With  anything  like  a  contest,  as 
usual,  Maud's  courage  came  back. 

'  I  am  not  in  your  power  yet/ 
said  she,  raising  her  haughty  head. 
'  There  stands  the  cab.  When  we 
reach  it  I  get  in,  aed  you  shall 
never  have  a  chance  of  speaking  to 
me  after  to-day.  Once  for  alL 
Will  you  take '  this  money,  or 
leave  it?  I  shall  not  make  the 
offer  again.' 

He  took  the  notes  from  her  hand« 
with  a  horrible  oath,  and  dashed 
them  on  the  ground ;  then,  growing 
so  pale  she  thought  be  must  have 
fallen,  seemed  to  recover  his  temper 
and  his  presence  of  mind,  picked 
them  up,  returned  them  very 
quietly,  and  stood  aside  on  the 
narrow  pavement  to  let  her  pass. 

'  You  are  right,'  said  he  in  a  voice 
so  changed  she  looked  anxiously  in 
his  white  face,  working  like  that 
of  a  msn  in  a  fit  '1  was  a  fool 
a  while  ago.  I  know  better  now. 
But  I  won't  take  the  notes,  my 
lady.  Thank  ye  kindly  just  the 
same.  I'll  wish  ye  good  momin* 
now.  Oh,  no  I  Make  yourself  easy. 
I'll  never  ask  to  see  ye  again.' 

He  staggered  while  he  walked 
away,  and  laid  hold  of  an  area 
railing  as  he  turned  the  street 
corner;  but  Maud  was  too  glad  to 
get  rid  of  her  tormentor  at  any 

Erice  to  speculate  on  his  meaning, 
is  movements,  or  the  storm  that 
raged  within  his  breast. 

And  now,  sitting  back  in  her 
carriage,  bowling  homeward,  with 
the  fresh  evening  breeze  in  her 
face,  the  few  men  left  to  take  their 
hats  off  looked  in  that  fiM»,  and 
while  making  up  their  minds  that 
after  all  it  was  the  handsomest  in 
London  felt  instinctively  they  had 
never  coveted  the  ownership  of  its 
haughty  beauty  so  little  as  to-day. 
Her  husband's  cornet,  walking  with 
a  brother  subaltern,  and  saluting 
Lady  Bearwarden^  or,  rather,  the 


M.ctN. 


141 


oarriagd  and  horses,  for  her  lady- 
ship's eyes  and  thoughts  were  miles 
away,  expreosed  the  popular  feeling 
perhaps  with  sufficient  clearness 
when  he  thns  delivered  himself,  in 
reply  to  his  companion's  londly- 
expressed  admiration — 

'  The  hest-looking  woman  in  Lon- 
don, no  donbt,  and  the  best  tnmed 
oat  Bat  I  think  Bniin's  got  a 
handfdl,  yon  know.  Tell  ye  what, 
my  boy,  I'm  generally  right  about 
women.  She  looks  like  the  sort 
that»  if  they  once  hegin  to  kick, 
never  leave  off  till  they've  knocked 
the  splinter-bar  into  toothpicks  and 
carried  away  the  ^ole  of  the  front 
boot/ 

Mand,  all  nnconscioas  of  the 
light  in  which  she  appeared  to  this 
young  philosopher,  was  meanwhile 
hardening  her  heart  with  consider- 
able mifigivings  for  the  task  she 
had  in  view,  resolved  that  nothing 
should  now  deter  her  from  the  con- 
fession she  had  delayed  too  long. 
She  reflected  how  foolish  it  was  not 
to  have  taken  advantage  of  the 
first  confidences  of  married  life  by 
throwing  herself  on  her  husband's 
mercy,  telling  him  all  the  folly, 
imprudence,  crime  of  which  she 
had  been  guilty,  and  imploring  to 
be  forgiven.  Every  day  that  passed 
made  it  more  difficult,  particularly 
since  this  coolness  had  arisen  b^ 
tween  them,  which,  althoagh  she 
felt  it  did  not  originate  with  her- 
self, she  also  felt  a  little  pliancy  on 
her  part,  a  little  warmth  of  manner, 
a  little  expressed  affection,  would 
have  done  much  to  counteract  and 
put  away.  She  had  delayed  it  too 
long;  but  'Better  late  than  never.' 
It  should  be  done  to-day;  before 
she  dressed  for  dinner;  the  instant 
she  got  home.  She  would  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  tell  him 
that  the  worst  of  her  miquities,  the 
most  unpardonable,  had  been  com- 
mitted for  love  of  him  I  She  could 
not  bear  to  lose  him  (Maud  forgot 
that  in  those  days  it  was  the  coro- 
net she  wanted  to  capture).  She 
dreaded  falling  in  his  esteem.  She 
dared  all,  risked  all,  because  with- 
out him  life  must  have  been  to  her, 
as  it  is  to  so  many,  a  blank  and 
a  mistake.  But  supposing  he  put 
on  the  cold,  grave  face,  assumed 


the  conventional  tone  she  knew  so 
well,  told  her  he  could  not  pardon 
such  unladylike,  such  unwomanly 
proceedings,  or  that  he  did  not 
desire  to  intrude  on  confidences  so 
long  withheld;  or,  worse  than  all, 
that  they  did  very  well  as  they 
were,  got  on — ^he  had  hinted  as 
much  once  before — ^better  than  half 
the  married  couples  in  London, 
why,  she  must  bear  it.  This  would 
be  part  of  the  punishment;  and 
at  least  she  could  have  the  satis- 
faction of  assuring  him  how  she 
loved  him,  and  of  loving  him 
heartily,  humbly,  even  without  re- 
turn. 

Lady  Bearwarden  had  never  done 
anything  humbly  before.  Perhaps 
she  thought  this  new  sensation 
might  be  for  her  good— might  make 
her  a  changed  woman,  and  in  such 
change  happier  henceforth. 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  How 
slow  that  man  drove;  but,  thank 
heaven  1  here  she  was,  home  at  last 

On  the  hall-table  lay  a  letter  in 
her  husband's  handwriting,  ad- 
dressed to  herself.  *  How  provok- 
ing 1'  she  muttered, '  to  say  he  dines 
out,  of  course.  And  now  I  must 
wait  till  to-morrow.  Never  mind.' 
f«  Passing  upstairs  to  her  boudoir, 
she  opened  it  as  she  entered  the 
room,  and  sank  into  a  chair,  with  a 
faint,  passionate  cry,  like  that  of  a 
hare,  or  other  weak  animal,  struck 
to  the  death.  She  had  courage, 
nevertheless,  to  read  it  over  twice, 
so  as  thoroughly  to  master  the  con- 
tents. During  their  engagement 
they  used  to  meet  every  day.  They 
had  not  been  parted  since  their 
marriaga  It  was  the  first,  literally 
the  very  first,  letter  she  had  ever 
received  from  him. 

'  I  have  no  reproaches  to  make,' 
it  said, '  nor  reasons  to  offer  for  my 
own  decision.  I  leave  both  to  your 
sense  of  right,  if  indeed  yours  can 
be  the  same  as  that  usually  accepted 
amongst  honourable  peopla  I  have 
long  felt  some  mysterious  barrier 
existed  between  yon  and  me.  I  have 
only  an  hour  ago  discovered  its  dis- 
graceful nature,  and  the  impossibi- 
lity that  it  can  ever  be  removed. 
You  cannot  wonder  at  my  not  re- 
turning homa  stay  there  as  long 
as  you  please,  and  be  assured  I  shall 


142 


ILorJT. 


not  enter  thftt  house  again.  Ton  will 
not  probably  wish  to  see  or  hold  any 
communication  with  me  in  future, 
but  should  you  be  so  ill-advised 
as  to  attempt  it,  remember  I  have 
taken  care  to  render  it  impossible. 
I  know  not  how  I  have  forfeited  the 
right  to  be  treated  fairly  and  on  the 
square,  nor  why  you,  of  all  the 
world,  should  have  felt  entitled  to 
make  me  your  dupe,  but  this  is  a 
question  on  which  I  do  not  mean  to 
enter,  now  nor  hereafter.  My  man 
of  business  will  attend  to  any  direc- 
tions you  think  proper  to  give,  and 
has  my  express  injunctions  to  far- 
ther your  convenience  in  every  way, 
but  to  withhold  my  address  and  all 
information  respecting  my  move- 
ments. With  a  sincere  wish  for 
your  welfiue,  I  remain, 

'  Yours,  &c., 

'  Bea^bwabden/ 

She  was  stunned,  stupefied,  bewil- 
dered. What  had  he  found  oat? 
What  could  it  mean?  She  had 
known  of  late  she  loved  him  very 
dearly;  she  never  knew  till  now 
the  pain  such  love  might  bring. 
She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  her 
agony,  but  soon  started  up  into 
action.  She  mvaido soTnetking.  She 
could  not  sit  there  under  his  Tery 
picture  looking  down  on  her,  manly, 
and  kind,  and  soldierlike  She  ran 
downstairs  to  his  room.  It  was  all 
disordered  just  as  he  had  left  it,  and 
an  odour  of  tobacco  clung  heavily 
round  tibe  curtains  and  furniture. 
She  wondered  now  she  should  ever 
have  disliked  the  fumes  of  that  un- 
savoury plant  She  could  not  bear 
to  stay  there  long,  but  hurried  up« 
stairs  again  to  ring  for  a  servant 
and  bid  him  get  a  cab  at  once,  to 
see  if  Lord  Bearwarden  was  at  the 
barracks.  She  felt  hopelessly  con- 
vinced it  was  no  use;  even  if  he 
were,  nothing  would  be  gained  by 
the  assurance,  but  it  seemed  a  relief 
to  obtain  an  interval  of  waiting  and 
uncertainty  and  delay.  When  the 
man  returned  to  report  that  'his 
lordship  had  been  there  and  gone 
away  again'  she  wished  she  had  let 
it  alone.  It  formed  no  light  portion 
of  her  burden  that  she  must  pre- 
serve an  appearance  of  composure 
before  her  servants.    It  seemed  such 


&  mockery  while  her  heart  was 
breaking,  yes,  breaking,  in  the  deso- 
lation of  her  sorrow,  the  bhink  of  a 
future  without  htm. 

Then  in  extremity  of  need  she 
bethought  her  of  Dick  Stanmore, 
and  in  this  I  think  Lady  Bearwar- 
den betrayed,  under  all  her  energy 
and  force  of  character,  the  softer 
elements  of  woman's  naturei  A  man, 
I  suppose,  under  any  pressure  of 
affliction  would  hardly  go  for  conso- 
lation to  the  woman  he  had  de- 
ceived. He  partakes  more  of  the 
wild  beast^s  sulkiness,  which,  sick 
or  wounded,  retires  to  mope  in  a 
comer  by  itself ;. whereas  a  woman, 
as  indeed  seems  only  becoming  to 
her  less  firmly-moulded  character, 
shows  in  a  straggle  all  the  qualities 
of  valour  except  that  one  additional 
atom  of  final  endurance  which  wins 
the  fight  at  last.  In  real  bitter  dis- 
tress they  must  have  some  one  to 
lean  on.  Is  it  selfishness  that  bids 
them  carry  their  sorrows  for  help  to 
the  very  hearts  they  have  crushed 
and  trampled?  Is  it  not  rather  a 
noble  instinct  of  forgiveness  and 
generosity  which  tells  them  that  if 
their  mutual  cases  were  reversed 
they  would  themselves  be  capable 
of  affording  the  sympathy  they  ex- 
pect? 

Maud  knew  that,  to  use  the  con- 
ventional language  of  the  world  in 
which  they  moved,  'she  had  treated 
Dick  ill.'  We  think  very  lightly  of 
thcBc  little  social  outrages  in  the 
battle  of  life,  and  yet  I  doubt  if  one 
human  being  can  inflict  a  much 
deeper  injury  ou  another  than  that 
which  deprives  the  victim  of  all 
power  of  enjoyment,  all  belief  in 
good,  all  hope  for  the  future,  all 
tender  memories  of  the  past  Man 
or  woman,  we  ought  to  have  some 
humane  compunction,  some  little 
hesitation  in  sitting  down  to  play  at 
that  game  from  which  the  winner 
rises  only  wearied  with  unmerited 
good  fortune,  the  loser,  haggard, 
miserable,  stripped  and  beggared 
for  life. 

It  was  owing  to  no  forbearance  of 
Lady  Bearwarden's  that  Dick  had 
80  far  recovered  his  losses  as  to  sit 
down  once  more  and  tempt  fortune 
at  another  table ;  but  she  turned  to 
him  nevertheless  in  this  her  hour  of 


If.  or  Jr. 


148 


perplexity,  and  wrote  to  ask  his  aid, 
advioe,  and  sympathy  in  her  great 
distress. 

I  give  her  letter,  though  it  never 
reached  its  destination,  hecanse  I 
think  it  illnstrates  certain  feminine 
ideas  of  honour,  jnstioe,  and  plain 
dealing  which  must  originate  in 
some  code  of  reasoning  totally  nn- 
intelligible  to  ourselves. 

'DsAB  Mb.  Stakmorb,— You  are 
a  true  friend  I  feel  sure.  I  have 
always  considered  tou  since  we  have 
been  acquainted,  the  truest  and  most 
tried  amongst  the  few  I  possess. 
Tou  told  me  once,  some  time  ago, 
when  we  used  to  meet  oftener  than 
we  have  of  late,  that  if  eyer  I  was 
in  sorrow  or  difficulty  I  was  to  he 
sure  and  let  you  know.  I  am  in 
sorrow  and  difficulty  now— great 
sorrow,  overwheloiing  difficulty.  I 
have  nobody  that  cares  for  me 
enough  to  give  ad?ice  or  help,  and 
I  am  so  very,  very  sad  and  desolate. 
I  think  I  have  some  claim  upon  you. 
We  used  to  be  so  much  together 
and  were  always  such  good  Mends. 
Besides,  we  are  almost  relations,  are 
we  not?  and  once  I  thought  we 
should  have  been  something  more. 
But  that  is  all  over  now. 

'  Will  jou  help  me  ?  Gome  to  me 
at  once,  or  write.  Lord  Bearwarden 
has  left  me  without  a  word  of  ex- 
planation except  a  cruel,  cutting, 
formal  letter  that  I  cannot  under- 
stand. I  don't  know  what  I  have 
said  or  done,  but  it  seems  so  hard, 
so  inhuman.  And  I  loved  him  very 
dearly,  very.  Indeed,  though  you 
have  every  right  to  say  you  don't 
believe  me,  I  would  have  made  him 
a  good  wife  if  he  had  let  me.  My 
heart  seems  quite  crushed  and 
broken.  It  is  too  hard.  Again  I 
ask  you  to  help  me,  and  remain 
always 

'  Yours  sincerely, 

'  M.  Bbabwaedbh.' 

There  is  little  doubt  that  had  Dick 
Stanmore  e^er  received  this  touch- 
ing production  he  would  have  lost 
not  one  moment  in  complying  with 


the  urgency  of  its  appeal.  But  Dick 
did  not  receive  it»  for  the  simnle 
reason  that  although  stamped  by 
her  ladyship  and  placed  in  the  lei- 
ter-box,  it  was  never  sent  to  the  post 

Lord  Bearwarden,  though  absent- 
ing himself  from  home  under  such 
unpleasant  circumstances,  could  not 
therefoxe  shake  off  the  thousand 
imperceptible  meshes  that  bind  a 
man  like  chains  of  iron  to  his  own 
domestic  establishmeni  Amongst 
other  petty  details  hia  correspond- 
enoe  had  to  be  provided  for,  and  he 
sent  directions  accordingly  to  his 
groom  of  the  chambers  that  all  his 
letters  should  be  forwarded  to  a  cer- 
tain address.  The  groom  of  the 
chambers,  who  had  served  in  one  or 
two  fiBunilies  before,  of  which  the 
heads  had  sefMurated  under  rather 
discreditable  circumstances,  misun- 
derstanding his  master's  orders,  or 
determined  to  err  on  the  safe  side, 
forwarded  all  the  letters  he  could 
lay  hands  on  to  my  lord.  There- 
fore the  hurt  and  angry  husband 
was  greeted,  ere  he  had  left  home  a 
day,  by  the  sight  of  an  envelope  in 
his  wife's  handwriting  addressed  to 
the  man  with  whom  he  believed  she 
was  in  love.  Even  under  such  pro- 
vocation Lord  Bearwarden  was  too 
high-minded  to  open  the  enclosure, 
but  sent  it  back  forthwith  in  a  slip 
of  paper,  on  which  he  calmly  '  pre- 
sented his  compliments  and  begged 
to  forward  a  letter  he  could  see  was 
Lady  Bearwarden's  that  had  fallen 
into  his  hands  by  mistake.' 

Maud,  weeping  in  her  desolate 
home,  tore  it  into  a  thousand  shreds. 
There  was  something  characteristic 
of  her  husband  in  these  little  honour- 
able scruples  that  cut  her  to  the 
heart. 

'Why  didn't  he  read  it?'  she  re- 
peated, wringing  her  hands  and 
walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
'  He  knows  Mr.  Stanmore  quite  well. 
Why  didn't  he  read  it?  and  then 
he  would  have  seen  what  I  shall 
never,  never  be  able  to  tell  him 
nowl' 


•^s'^^^^ 


lU 


SUMMEE  DAYS  AMONG  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 


A  SIX  hours'  ride  by  rail  from 
BofitoD,  MASsacbnsettB,  brings 
yon  to  the  borders  of  one  of  thoee 
lovely  lakes  which  are  so  frequent 
and  so  essential  in  that  rich  and 
wild  scenery  which  prsTails  in 
America.  Lake  Winnepiseogee — 
such  is  its  aboriginal  and  tongue- 
torturing  name— lies  almost  at  the 
foot  of  the  range  of  mountains 
which  is  the  favourite  sojourning 
place  of  those  New  England  fnshion- 
ables  who  prefer  the  mountain  air 
to  the  sea-oreeze,  and  who  find  a 
deeper  pleasure  in  wandering  in 
*  the  forest  primeval— the  murmur- 
ing pines  and  the  hemlocks/  than 
in  listening  to  the  '  perpetual 
laughter  of  the  dimpling  sea- 
waves/  The  journey,  indeed,  from 
the  city  to  the  lake  is  not  devoid 
of  interest;  the  curious  English 
sojourner  among  his  Yankee  cou- 
sins— may  they  always  be  cousinly, 
these  two — will  not  fiiil  to  find, 
both  on  the  road  and  at  the  trip's 
end,  scenes  and  things  worth  noting 
in  that  inevitable  note-book  which 
marks  the  true  tourist -spirit 
Northern  Massachusetts  has  not  a 
little  to  boast  of  in  rich  and  varie- 
gated landscape:  fine  farm  hinds; 
broad  sweeping  meadows;  wide 
slow-flowing  rivers;  great  whistling 
forests;  and  hill  and  dale  merging 
gently  into  each  other,  and  bearing 
on  their  bosom  the  fruit  of  the 
husbandman's  thrift  and  the  Yan- 
kee's energy.  Anon  you  whirl 
through  great  manufacturing  towns 
with  their  palatial  mills  and  huge 
whizzing  wheels,  and  buzzing,  bee- 
like population;  passing  abruptly 
from  the  spectacle  of  the  conquest 
of  earth  to  that  of  mechanical  ele- 
ments. 

If  you  are  so  happy  as  to  make 
the  trip  on  one  of  those  'perfect 
days  of  June,'  when  the  blue  above 
is  boundless  and  fathomless,  and 
the  green  below  is  darkest,  freest, 
newest  to  outer  earth — ^meeting  far 
off  there  in  the  horizon,  and  di- 
viding for  us  everywhere  the  scope 
of  sight— if  you  have  such  a  day, 
the  manufacturing  towns  are  apt  to 
be  rather  in   the   way — too   de- 


structive of  the  seducing  illusion 
of  the  country,  its  air,  sounds,  and 
sights.  You  leave  Lowell,  and  with 
it  the  last  of  thoee  painftilly  vivid 
reminders  that  you  live  in  a  world 
of  toil  and  hard,  grating,  practical 
cares  and  thoughts.  The  sloping 
hills  and  minute  culture  change 
into  loftier  ranges  and  rude  declivi- 
ties; finally,  gradoally,  the  lower 
spurs  of  the  White  Mountains 
come  into  sight.  Of  Lake  Winne- 
piseogee I,  at  least,  cannot  speak 
without  enthusiasm.  If  you  see  it 
first,  as  I  did,  under  the  canopy 
of  great  dark  rolling  clouds,  dark- 
ening, in  places,  alike  mountain 
landscape  and  lake  surface,  it  is 
grand  and  beautiful:  not  the  less 
BO  that  the  crests  of  the  majestio 
hills  are  encircled  by  swaying  and 
uncertain  vapours.  Perhaps  there 
is  no  season  when  a  lake  landscape 
is  so  picturesque  as  when  a  long 
and  heavy  storm  has  just  exhausted 
itself,  and  the  rolling  clouds,  now 
lighter  and  wreathing  themselves 
gracefully,  wind  into  fiutastic 
shapes  and  momentary  festoons 
about  the  slopes  and  over  the 
valleys — the  valleys  and  hill-sides 
meanwhile  catching  here  and  there 
a  gleam  of  sunlight,  illumining 
here  and  there  a  farmhouse  or  a 
wheat  field,  while  all  about  is 
dimmed.  And  such  an  effect  yon 
may  often  see  on  this  gem  of  a 
mountain  lake,  Winnepiseogee.  (Let 
me  hope  that  the  name — which,  if 
you  can  only  teach  yourself  to  pro- 
nounce it,  is  really  a  musical  one — 
will  not  frighten  the  romance  of  the 
scene  from  the  imagination  of  my 
lady  readers.) 

Old  Winnepiseogee  is  some  twenty 
or  thirty  miles  long,  and  irregular 
in  width;  tradition  of  the  farmers 
apprises  us  that  it  contains  just 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  islands 
— one  for  each  day  in  the  year;  and 
it  has  been  said  that  in  leap-year  an 
additional  fedry  island  makes  its  ap- 
pearance in  the  midst  of  the  waters, 
visible,  however,  only  by  moon- 
light Banges  of  mountains  are  on 
almost  every  side;  to  the  north- 
ward rises  the  stately  range  of  the 


Summer  Days  among  the  WhUe  Mountains. 


145 


White  Monniaiiui  proper,  their 
snowy  tops  easily  distingnished 
firom  the  gray  and  green  hae  of 
tiieir  lesser  brothers.  The  islands 
in  the  lake  aie  mostly  exceedingly 
heantifdl,  thick  with  the  wild,  care- 
lessly graceful  fbliage  characteristic 
of  American  scenery,  abounding 
sn  rich  nncaltnred  fruits,  contain- 
ing loyel^  little  coyes  and  pic- 
turesque jutting  promontories,  and 
natural  alcoves  and  grottoes  inimi- 
table by  the  art  of  man.  The 
middle  of  June  sees  the  swarms 
of  tourists  flocking  to  the  lake, 
across  it,  and  beyond  to  the  moun- 
tain resorts.  Eoyiable  to  those 
who  have  to  stay  in  the  city  and 
plod  are  these  merry  groups— for 
right  merry  are  tiiey,  infected  by 
the  rural  air  and  lovely  scene, 
albeit  children  of  Puritan  Pilgrims 
— who  are  so  lucky  as  to  get  away 
to  witness  these  august  and  beau- 
tiful testimonies  to  the  goodness  of 
God. 

Frocul  a   ntgotiis,    your    pros- 
perous   man    of    business,    who, 
tboughH  Yankee-sharp  at  a  trade, 
no   doubt,  can   reaUy  be  a  jolly 
fellow  when   free   from   the   per- 
plexities of  his  counting-room,  re- 
tires  to  lake  and  mountain,  and 
spends  the  long  summer  months  in 
the  countless  pursuits  of  pleasure, 
which  have  only  one  drawback — 
that  you  find  it  so  hard  which  of 
them  to  choose.     Better  still,  fax 
from  the   heat  and  weariness  of 
jashionable     slavery,    the    young 
Kew  England  damsels  escape  to 
these  retreats,  where  they  may  live 
and  grow  rosy  once  more  over  the 
hearty  count^  fare,  with  its  honey 
and  fresh  milk,  its  homely  bread 
and  fruits,  its  local   culinary  tri- 
umphs   and    harmless   beverages. 
Here  is  health  for  them,  the  poor 
jaded   creatures,   become    languid 
from  the  exhausting  winter  cam- 
paign of  fiekshion;  from  these  hills 
uid  lakes  they  may  drink  in  new 
life,  and  derive  merry  spirits  once 
more.     Who  is  not  there,  on  the 
neat  little  steamboat,  as  it  carries 
you  and  me  over  the  placid  waters 
of  Lake  Winnepiseogee  ?    Are  you 
a  student  of  human  nature,   you 
may  indulge  that  pet  occupation  to 
your  hearrs  content,  at  the  same 
VOL.  xvL— Ko.  xon. 


time  that  you  refresh  yourself  with 
the   mountain   breezes   and   your 
eyes  with  the  countless  littie  islands 
and  the  sloping  lake-shore.    Every- 
body—at least  the  representatives 
and  types  of  everybody— are  there 
before  us.     The  typical   Pater£Br 
milias,  in  a  constant  state  of  anxiety 
about  the  luggage,  which  he  has  to 
keep  a  'sht^  look-out  on;' while 
he  nas  at  the  same  time  to  carry 
shawls   and  stools  and  what  not 
from  one  end  of  the  deck  to  the 
other  and  back  again,  and  acts  as 
waiter-general  to  his  exacting  party 
of  daughters   and  nieces;    Pater- 
fiunilias  is  there,  many  times  re- 
peated.    Sporting    young  gentie- 
men,  all  leggings  and  bobcoats,  idl 
straps  and  fishing  tackle,  are  there ; 
fitshionable  fops,  in  fiiultless  attire, 
dividing  their  time  between   re- 
sisting the  propensity  of  stray  par- 
ticles of  dust  to  &sten  on  them, 
and  lisping  platitudes  to  the  bevy 
of  girls  by  the  flag-pole— they  are 
th^  too,  plenty  and  various;  of 
course  the  man  who  '  can  tell  you 
all  about  this  r^ion'  is  there,  a 
walking  guide-book,  who  can  nar- 
rate wonderful  things  about  every 
little  nook  and  comer  throughout 
the  trip,  who  has   travelled  over 
the  route  a  marvellous  number  of 
times,  and,  before  the  journey  is 
over,  has  established   himself  on 
intim  te  terms  with  everybody  on 
the  boat;  there  are  shoals  of  artists, 
savagely  hirsute,  discussing  points 
of    view,   and    backgrounds,   and 
colour  effects,  and  niaking  sudden 
discoveries  of  '  eligible '  landscapes, 
which  they  all  tip  over  their  h^kLs 
and  squint  at;   there  are  dry-as- 
dust   lawyers,  and   sleek  parsons 
with  oily  voices  and  weak  lungs, 
and  prosperous  doctors  telling  hor- 
rible stories,  and  paternal  school- 
masters with  shoals  of  boys  whom 
thoy  are  taking  to  the  mountains  on 
botanical  or  geological  enieditions. 
There  is  flirting,  and  reading,  and 
eating,  and  smoking,  and  sketching, 
and  shrill  'OhsT  at  the  scenery, 
natty   travelling   suits,  and   littie  . 
flat  sun-hats,  much  like  those  you 
see  on  the  Bhine  or  in  the  Alp?. 
The  luggage  is  piled  up  on  ue 
lower    deck,  and    every   modem 
travelling  appliance  is  discoverable 

L 


146 


Ddjfi  amomg&e  WhUe 


in  the  ndgfaboiufaood  of  the  tomr- 
istB.  One  nman  why  audi  aa 
exconkm  is  peenliatly  plo—nt  is, 
that  everybody  m  sociable,  and 
quite  zeady  to  get  awpminted  with 
ererybodT  elae.  Mo  qneationa  aaked 
aboat  pedigree,  extaat  of  pone,  Aie. 
Every  Eogliahaiaa  who  haa  tnir 
veiled  in  Ameriea  will  tell  yoa 
bow  readily  acqnainteaoe  is  to  be 
made  on  lines  of  public  travel; 
indeed,  more  than  one  haa  com- 
plained that  hand-shaking  and  sad- 
den finendshipe  are  rather  too 
prevalent  in  the  States.  But  it  is 
erring,  at  least,  on  the  genial  side. 
So  it  is  that  onr  nuseeUaaeona 
group  of  paraengess  on  board  the 
prat^  little  WinnepiseogBe  steam- 
boat are,  before  uie  two  boon' 
joomey  across  the  lake  is  over,  on 
the  easiest  and  pleasantest  terms 
possible;  lan^ung  and  talking 
with  each  other  witii  as  litfle  cere- 
mony as  if  they  were  each  and  all 
a  fiimily  party.  It  wiU  be  strange 
if  elaborate  plans  have  not  beoi 
matured  to  meet  each  other  in  the 
mountains  and  to  make  pio-nie  or 
berrying  ezcursionB  among  the 
forests  and  along  the  river-sides 
which  abound  there,  and  are  so 
well  adapted  to  these  pastimes.  At 
the  upper  end  of  the  lake  the  hills 
have  become  more  lofty,  and  the 
cool,  dry  mountain  air  has  become 
more  perceptible  and  refreshing. 
We  land  at  the  little  pier  and  walk 
up  a  knoU  to  the  old-fiashioned  inn 
(there  are  such  still  even  in  new 
America),  with  its  long  verandah 
running  ak)Dg  its  front  and  afford- 
ing a  chazming  view  of  the  lake. 

S(»ne,  however,  do  not  go  as  &r  as 
the  end  of  the  steamboat's  journey. 
Many  of  the  islands  of  the  lake 
ate  large  enough  to  be  inhabit- 
able ;  some  are  a  mile  or  two  long 
and  half  a  mile  wide,  and  are  the 
residences  of  hardy  New  England 
farmers.  Nearly  all  of  these  &nners 
are  quite  willing  to  receive 
boarders;  and,  to  him  who  has 
come  off  purposely  to  get  away 
from  society,  and  desires,  above 
all  things,  rustic  tranquillity  and 
aquatic  sports,  nothings  can  be  more 
charming  than  to  take  up  an  abode 
at  one  of  these  island  fiurmhouses. 
Th^y  all  have  boats  in  plenty,  and 


fishing-tackle,  which,  if  less 
plicated  and  ornate  than  that  wfaiek 
IS  dtj-bongfat,  is  found  to  be  quit» 
as  efBactoal  for  pnctical  purpesaar 
Some  of  the  fyrmers,  antidpaterj 
of  guests,  have  bialt  ninepm  aUe^ 
at  the  watisMBde,  and  have  cleaBsd 
pleassat  little  umbiageous  copses 
for  oaniature  pie-nics;  and  oftem 
during  the  summer  parties  of  vil- 
lagers from  the  opposite  shoio 
come  over  by  boatsfdl  to  danoe^ 
row,  sing,  and  feast  beneath  the 
shady  expanse  and  on  the  water. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  there 
is  everywhere  so  much  room  m 
America  that  there  is  no  restriction 
whi^ver  either  in  fishing,  or  hunt- 
ing, or  wandering  whithersoever 
one  lists  over  £he  forests  sad 
through  the  fields.  So  yoa  are 
careful  not  to  tread  down  the 
wheat,  or  crush  the  vines,  you  are 
perfectly  free  to  go  and  come,  with 
no  permission  to  ask,  and  no  bailifb 
or  house-dogs  to  fear.  A  more 
delightful  life  than  this  m  the 
island  fiumhouse  it  is  hard  to 
imagina  One  feels  a  sense  of 
freedom  nowhere  else  experienced. 
Tou  may  take  your  gun,  and  wan- 
der from  (me  end  of  the  island  to 
the  other,  unmolested,  and  only 
hearing  the  country  sounds  and 
buzzing  which  is  so  grateful  to  the 
city  denizee.  You  may  fish,  or 
row,  or  swim,  or  lounge  and  read, 
wheal  and  where  you  wilL  You 
may  take  a  boat,  and  make  Crusoe- 
like vovages  of  discovery  to  the 
hundred  neighbouring  little  islands 
scattered  near,  or  have  an  im- 
promptu lunch  of  fried  fish  and 
roast  potatoes  on  the  smooth  sand 
of  the  many  lovely  little  coves. 
You  may  either  philosophize,  study, 
or  refuse  to  think  altogether.  Tito 
accommodations  of  the  farmhouse 
are  not  elegant,  but  they  abound 
in  homely  comforts;  the  good  foiik 
are  rouffh  and  plain,  but  kindly; 
the  food  is  iresh  and  pure,  well 
cooked,  and  plenty  of  it  In  such 
a  life  the  summer  but  too  rapidly 
slides  away ;  and  the  only  regret  is 
to  tear  one's  self  away  when  the 
time  of  departure  has  arrived. 

In  the  fresh,  crisp,  early  mominff 
air,  the  dew  yet  glistening  on  pm 
and  blade,  the  okL-fiiduoBed  st^ge- 


Summer  Daif$  amonj  ike  White  Mountain. 


147 


coach  (thexe  axe  these,  too,  oh, 
Conservatiye  reader,  in  lepublican 
American  whirls  np  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  ana  those  who  are  going  for- 
ward to  penetrate  to  the  midatof 
the  moantain  region  bnstle  about 
to  get  their  luggage  aboard,  and  to 
seeare  seats  for  iuemselTes.    It  is 
so  early  that  oar  fops  are  drowefy, 
and  oar  damsels  hare  reddish  eyes, 
and  hair  not  too  minutely  combed; 
but  soon  the  soeDe  becomes  liyely, 
and  cheery  laughter  rings  out,  and 
tiiore  is  a  good-natured  struggle  for 
the  tip-top  seats.    The  boys  are  apt 
to  contend  for  the  seats  next  the 
dxiyer— that  ineyitable  oracle,  and 
peculiar  philoeopher,  friend,  and 
wonder  of  boys  eyerywhere.     Th& 
young  ladies  are  by  no  means  too 
squeamish  to  take  places  on  the 
trunks  and  boxes  on  the  roof  of  the 
coach,  the  more  nSgligS  and  informal 
eT»7thing    is   the   better.      The 
journey  is  to  be  a  long  one~HK>me 
six  or  eight  hours— and  so  there  are 
innumerable  baskets  and  hampers 
of  proyisions,  bottles  of  currant  and 
gooseberry  wine,  whfle  the  young 
men  hare  ample  supplies  of  cigars, 
meeischaum  pipes,  and  pouches  of 
'fine-eut  cavenaish.'    llie  sceneiT 
through  which  our  great  stEhge-coach 
rumbles,  to  the  sound  of  the  crack- 
ling whip  and  the  marry  harness- 
bells,  is  really  peculiar  to  America ; 
and  one  who  has  not  been  there  can 
hardly  form  an  idea  of  its  contrast 
with  any  scenery  discoverable  in 
Europei    The  brilliant  effect  of  a 
storm  just  passed,  already  spoken 
of  as  enhancing  the  beauty  of  the  lake 
landscape,  is  also  discoYcred  in  the 
mountam  landscape.    When  all  is 
dear,  and  the  storm  has  just  left  a 
bright  glistening  green  tmge  upon 
the  whole  scene,  and  tiie  peaks  of 
the  mountains,  now  hue,  cluster 
around  you,  bcnmding  the  horizon, 
the  view  is  one  certunly  not  to  be 
surpassed  in  loreliness,  although 
Alp  and  Tjieooe  may  excel  it  in 
TBstneas  and  grandeur.  Then  there 
is  infinite  variety  in  ihis  landscape 
thrCQgh  which  you  nass  between 
the  lake  and  the  high  mountains. 
Sometimes  you  whirl  through  a  thin 
fbrest,  its  trees  uniform  and  wide 
apart,  and  the  gromid  fiorly  covered 
with  ite  short  fiat  bush  of  the  blue- 


berry^the  peculiar  and  delicious 
fruit  of  the  region,  now  just  getting 
ripe— a  fruit, most  like,  perlu^ps, 
the  whortlebeny,  but  flGir  nicer,  and 
having  no  counterpart  in  any  Eu- 
ropean {>roduction.  This  berry,  let 
me  say  in  passing,  is  as  large  as  a 
very  large  pea,  and  is  of  a  beautiful 
very  light  blue  colour;  its  pulp  is 
white  and  sweet,  and  it  is  a  great 
favourite  throughout  New  England. 
It  is  made  into  pies,  puddings,  and 
cakes,  and  never  fails  to  enrich 
whatever  dish  it  forms  a  part  of. 
Anon,  to  resume  the  journey,  you 
emerge  into  a  wide,  square,  flat 
meadow  plain,  closing  abruptly  on 
either  side  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains, not  gradually  sloping  up  to 
them.  In  its  midst,  a  bxoaa,  wmd- 
ing  river  slowly  flows ;  on  its  bosom, 
here  and  there,  are  bDautiful  flelds 
of  wheat  or  maize.  Above  it  are 
often  ledges  of  great  height.  These 
ledges,  in  America,  are  the  castles 
built  by  nature  to  supply,  in  the 
landscape,  the  place  of  the  feudal 
castles  of  Europa  On  one  of  them, 
in  this  journey  which  we  desoribe,  is 
to  be  seen  a  distinct  resemblance  to 
a  white  horse,  formed  by  the  strata 
of  the  rock.  This  is  a  curious  ob- 
ject to  the  tourists,  and  is  named 
the  'White  Horse  Ledge.'  There 
are  also,  in  the  same  vicinity,  several 
pretty  little  lakes,  nestling  near  the 
ledges,  which  produce  remarkable 
echoes  among  other  attractions. 

The  ledges  and  rock  of  this  region 
are  mostly  composed  of  granite;  and 
New  Haznmhire,  the  State  which 
boasts  the  White  Mountains,is  there- 
fore named  the '  Granite  State.' 

The  stage-coach,  after  a  glorious 
journey  of  some  eight  hours,  brings 
us  to  a  charming  village,  lying  in 
the  midst  of  the  broad  vaUey  of  the 
Saco,  midway  between  the  mountain 
ranges  on  either  side,  which  bears 
the  good  old  English  name  of 
Conway.  Here  it  is  relieved  of 
many  of  its  passengers;  for  Gon- 
wav  is  one  of  the  best  and  most 
ftshionable  White  Mountain  resorts. 
Along  the  wide  and  shaded  road 
you  will  espy  some  half  a  dozen 
spacious  and  most  comfortable-look- 
ing hotels;  and  about  them  all  is 
the  prosperous  appearance  of  a  brisk 
season,  fcft  everywhere  you  see  the 
-   I.  a 


148 


Summer  Day$  among  ike  While  Mcuniaine. 


pleasureHseekers  going  to  and  fro, 
standing  in  groups  or  playing  oat- 
door  games.  On  either  side  pretty 
roads  branch  off,  stadded  here  and 
there  with  neat  fJEtrmhooses  with 
porches  and  lawns,  and  shaded 
by  noble  chestnnts  and  elms,  the 
few  snrviyors  of  '  the  forest  prim* 
eyal/  You  may  take  yoor  choice, 
eiUier  to  make  your  abode  at  the 
hotel,  surrounded  by  a  city  colony, 
which  still  keeps  up  here  all  the 
fashionable  customs,  or  to  secure 
board  at  one  of  the  farmhouses, 
which  haye  all  been  made  ready  for 
yisitors,  and  where  you  may  enjoy 
tranquillity  with  the  advantage  of 
going  down  to  the  hotels,  and 
plunging  into  'sociefy'  wheneyer 
you  may  happen  to  feel  so  inclined. 
The  life  in  the  hotel  is,  despite  the 
toilets  and  fashionable  exigencies,  a 
merry  one.  Somehow  or  other  the 
ladies  manage  to  unite  the  two  in  a 
manner  most  adroit  and  skilful. 
As  I  said  before,  eyery  one  is  soon 
acquainted  with  eyery  one  else,  and 
this  makes  the  contrast  between 
this  American  mountain  resort  and 
those  of  Germany  and  Switzerland 
yery  striking.  It  soon  gets  to  be 
like  a  counter  hoase  full  of  a  great 
and  yarious  family  gathering.  The 
yotmg  ladies  and  young  gentlemen 
haye  all  got  togeUier,  haye  found 
their  'affinities,'  and  loye-making, 
either  in  a  light  or  a  desperate 
fashion,  liecomes  the  main  occupa- 
tion of  the  young  portion  of  the 
guests.  The  elders  haye  also  be- 
come easy  with  each  other,  and  talk 
politics  or  stocks,  play  chess  or 
whist,  compare  fashions,  or  gossip 
about  the  new  arrivals  quite  as  per- 
sistently as  if  they  were  at  home. 
How  shall  I  describe  the  infinite 
amusements,  old  and  newly-in- 
yented,  which  serve  to  steal  time 
away  from  the  pleasure-seekers,  and 
to  draw  the  summer  away  from 
under  their  feet  without  their  know- 
ing it?  In  the  unrestricted  freedom 
of  the  country  there  are,  of  course, 
many  wanderings  over  the  vast  and 
velvety  meadows,  and  in  among  the 
tall  yellow  wheat-ears.  Of  course 
the  motmtains  must  be  climbed, 
and  views  taken  of  the  valleys ;  then 
crinoline  must  be  discarded,  and 
broad,  flappy sun-hats  donned;  and 


there  is  infinite  fun  in  creeping  up 
the  rooky  paths,  meademoiselles 
having  plentiful  assistance  from  the 
arms  and  hands  of  their  gallants. 
Often  these  moxmtain  excursions 
have  another  object— the  fiiscinating 
one  of  picking  the  blueberries. 
These  grow  in  wonderful  luxuriance 
on  the  craggy  mountain  sides,  and 
it  is  really  great  fim  to  be  of  a  party, 
supplied  with  baskets  and  pails, 
who  spend  the  day  gathering  them, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  talk  and 
laugh  and  joke,  and  to  sit  under 
some  wide-spreading  tree  to  deyour 
the  lunch  which  has  been  brought, 
and  for  which  the  berry-picking  and 
mountain-climbing  has  given  a  rare 
zest  Sometimes  the  fun  is  inter- 
rupted by  an  unwelcome  guest- 
unwelcome,  at  least,  to  the  timid 
excursionists  of  the  gentler  sex. 
'  Those  horrid  snakes '  are  truly  the 
abcHninatiQU  of  your  young  lady 
who  seeks  her  pleasure  among  the 
mountuns.  Then,  when  one  of 
these  reptiles,  which  are  not  un- 
common there,  thrusts  his  ugly  fiBuoe 
among  the  company,  there  is  much 
screaming  and  ado,  tendencies  to 
faint  away,  which  necessitate  mas- 
culine support,  while  the  gallant 
youths  rejoice  to  display  their  valour, 
and  zealously  engage  in  following 
up  the  intruder,  and  laying  his  life- 
less form,  a  trophy,  before  their  ad- 
miring but  frightened  companions. 
And  what  an  Elysium  is  this  moun- 
tain region  to  your  practised  sports- 
man I  As  far  as  ms  legs  can  carry 
him  he  may  roam,  day  after  day, 
gun  on  shoulder,  fearing  no  pro- 

Erietor  of  the  soil,  and  with  limit- 
ss  game  on  every  hand. 
Here,  too,  among  these  yast  fo- 
rests, and  along  these  broad  rivers 
which  are  among  the  *  White  HUls,' 
is  a  rich  field  for  the  ardent  disciple 
of  old  Izaak  Walton.  The  woods 
are  replete  with  little  narrow  gurg- 
ling brooks,  and  these  brooks  abound 
in  trout,  fat  and  shiny  in  their  pros- 
perous solitude.  You  may  take 
your  pole,  basket,  and  fiy,  and  stroll 
up  through  the  brush,  and  through 
the  shady  dells,  all  day  long,  with 
plenty  of  game  and  no  interruption. 
Prefer  you  river  fishing  for  perch 
or  roach,  lake  fishing  for  pike  and 
lake-trout?     Here  it  is,  then,  un- 


Summer  Days  among  the  White  Momtains. 


149 


limited,  at  your  hand,  and,  are  you 
only  an  expert  angler,  yon  may  each 
day  retom  to  your  farmhonse  or 
hotel  laden  with  treaanreB  unstinted 
for  breakfast  or  dinner  delectation. 
There  is  in  the  White  Monntains 
occasionally  rarer  and  fiercer  sport 
than  this.  Eyen  in  this  long- settled 
part  of  America— for  New  Hamp- 
shire was  colonized  early  in  the 
seTenteenth  centoiy—- there  is  occa- 
sionally a  black  bear  discovered, 
some  solitary  descendant  of  the  an- 
cient hairy  lords  of  the  domain. 
When  such  an  eyent  occurs  there  is 
excitement  of  y eneiy  indeed  1  Parties 
sconr  the  monntains  and  dells  for  old 
Bruin,  and  he  is,  perhaps,  bronght 
down  after  a  hearly  struggle,  not 
without  its  dangers.  Partridges, 
pigeons,  and  quails  are  seemingly 
inexhaustible  there  in  their  season. 
Often  parties  of  adyenturous  fel- 
lows ^nll  take  gun  and  hamper, 
start  out,  and  be  gone  seyeral  days 
among  tiie  solitfiffy  wilds  of  the 
mountains.  They  provide  them- 
selves  with  canvas,  and  when  they 
have  reached  a  &vourable  spot, 
many  miles  from  any  habitation — 
likely  enough  some  little  open  space 
in  the  midst  of  the  thick  forest,  or 
cm  the  bank  of  some  tumbling  and 
splashing  mountain  stream — they 
pitch  tbdir  tents,  set  up  their  tri- 
pods, lay  their  blankets,  and  after 
ei^ying  a  rare  sport  by  day,  cook 
their  dinner  at  dusk  from  its  pro- 
ceeds, and  smoke,  drink,  sing,  and 
play  cards,  by  the  light  of  tbe  blazing 
fire  which  th^  have  built  before 
their  tenta  Such  a  life,  if  the  rain 
only  holds  off,  is  glorious  and  joy- 
ous, as  I  can  testify  from  a  debght- 
fnl  experience. 


Meanwhile,  at  the  hotels,  the 
young  ladies  and  the  stay-at-home 
young  gentlemen  indulge  in  more 
quiet  and  more  fashionable  amuse- 
ments. If  you  pass  along  tire  vil- 
lage street  at  night— and  what  glo- 
riously clear  and  limpid  nights  tibey 
are  there !— from  ahnoet  every  house 
there  comes  out  a  sound  of  music 
and  revelry.  Dancing  whiles  away 
the  short  summer  evenings,  and 
bands  have  been  imported  from  the 
dty  for  the  purpose.  Sometimes  it 
is  varied  by  those  household  games 
which  New  England  has  inherited 
from  Old  Ensland;  something  is 
ceriain  to  be  done  to  make  the  even- 
ing fly  away  on  win^^  Croquet 
and  velocipedes  are  the  order  of 
the  day,  every  hotel  being  pro- 
vided with  the  implements  of  the 
former  game.  Pio-nics  are  frequent, 
and,  amidst  this  grand  scenery,  and 
under  this  welcome  shade,  and  be- 
side these  roaring  streams,  pic-nics 
are  in  their  perfection.  How  pleasant 
to  dance  under  the  lofty  oaks,  fanned 
by  soft,  cool  mountain  breezes !  How 
refreshing  is  the  luncheon  of  currant 
wine,  cold  chicken,  sandwiches,  and 
cake,  dealt  out  by  delicate  female 
hands,  amid  merry  laughter  and  in- 
finite joking!  Then  there  is  the 
wandering  m  couples  among  the 
trees,  the  cosy  taJk  in  the  quiet 
nook,  the  berry-picking,  the  poetry- 
reading,  the  sketch-drawing,  and 
the  *  silent  meditation,  fancy  firee.' 
So  let  all  wanderers  in  America, 
who  would  fain  avoid  wilting  at  the 
more  fashionable  watering-places, 
hie  them  to  this  lovely  mountain  re- 
gion, tiiere  to  find  robust  health,  and 
pleasures  as  substantial  as  Uiose 
described. 

Gboboe  Maejbpeaob  Towlk. 


160 


CROSS  PUEPOSES. 
CHAPTER  L 


EARLY  in  the  perfoct  aatomn 
moniing,  when  the  gossuiier- 
webs^  dew-spangled,  eovered  tiie 
mofissB  and  roadside  weeds,  and 
the  gone  on  Hie  upland ;  nnder  the 
beedbes,  whose  leaves  weie  just  be- 
ginning to  change  and  to  &11,  to 
flutter  down  slowly  and  BoSUy,  even 
without  wind;  0]^M)aite  a  small 
window,  in  an  otherwise  blank  and 
thickly-ivied  wall,  she  paused  and 
hesitated. 

Perhaps  ten  minutes  — perhaps 
twenty— she  stood  there,  looking 
intently  at  a  letter  she  held,  only 
Btndying  the  address  of  it— and 
thal^  too,  written  by  her  own  hand. 

Nobody  passed;  nothing  dis- 
turbed her :  a  squirrel  was  rostling 
the  boughs  above  her  head,  and 
small  birds  e^  her  from  out  the 
ivy;  but  there  she  stood,  till,  at 
last,  a  footstep  of  some  one  coming 
down  towards  her  from  the  higher 
part  of  the  village  roused  her:  then 
she  crossed  the  road,  put  her  letter 
into  the  slit  in  the  window,  and 
began  to  walk  fast  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  that  whence  came 
the  footstep. 

Hurry  as  she  might,  she  was  soon 
overtaken.  A  hand  rested  on  her 
shouldjer,  lightly  yet  firmly,  and 
quite  as  if  it  had  a  right  to  rest 
there  if  it  chose. 

'  Edith  1  you  used  to  say  you  al- 
ways could  tell  my  footstep  from 
any  other;  in  the  few  days  I've 
been  away  from  the  island  have  you 
forgotten  it?' 

'  I  did  not  say  I  could  not  do  so 
now.' 

The  girl  spoke  sharply,  still  hur- 
rying on,  wi&out  looking  up. 

'My  child!'  bending  forward  to 
look  her  more  fully  in  the  face, 
'what  is  the  matter  with  you? 
This  is  a  queer  reception.  What  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?* 

*  "Why  should  there  be  anything 
the  matter  with  me  ?' 

*  You  are  looking  ill.' 
•I'm  tired.' 

'  Take  my  arm— why  do  you  walk 
sofju? 


'  I  wanted  to  post  a  letter  my- 
seHl' 

'Take  my  aim.    1\>whom?' 

'  To  my  oourin  Gertrude.' 

She  looked  him  in  thefiicenow. 
A  handsome,  honeat  iiEu»,  with  grey 
^yes,  and  a  goldenrbrown  beard  and 
moustache,  veiy  brilliant  in  the 
goldm  sunshine  that  fell  tiirough 
the  golden  boughs ;  so  brilliant  that 
she  flOQsi  looked  down  again. 

'Why  don't  you  take  my  arm?' 
Ln  an  ill-used,  wondering  iooe, 

'  I  would  rather  not' 

Sudden  tears  dropped  down  as 
she  remembered  she  did  not  mean 
to  have  the  right  to  claim  it 
any  'nK»re.  Remembering  this,  she 
clasped  it  now,  with  both  hiinds, 
suddenly,  passionately:  she  was 
very  mudi  of  a  child  stall. 

'That  is  right!'  and  the  grey 
eyes — warm  grey—  shone  down  upon 
her  contentedly.  '  Now  about  your 
cousin  Gertrude :  had  you  anything 
very  particular  to  tell  her  that  you 
chose  to  post  your  letter  yonzsefr?' 

'  Yes;  I  have  asked  her  to  come 
and  stay  wiiii  me :  your  mother  has 
promised  her  a  month's  holiday;  I 
have  asked  her  to  spend  it  with 
me.' 

'  I  am  sorry  for  that' 

His  fifice  flushed  and  his  brows 
contracted. 

'  You  need  not  be.' 

'  I  am  the  best  judge  of  that,  my 
child.  I  have  my  reasons,  Edith, 
and  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry.' 

'Perhaps  I  know  more  of  your 
reasons  than  you  fsbucy.' 

He  turned  an  inquiring  look  upon 
her,  but  she  looked  away.  They 
were  both  silent  after  that  a  good 
while.  She  kept  her  eyes  bent  upon 
the  ground.  She  knew  each  bit  of 
the  road  well:  she  was  calculating 
time  and  distance.  She  said  to  her- 
self '  When  we  come  to  the  great 
hazel-bush,  I  will  leave  hold  of  his 
arm  and  speak;'  meanwhile  sho 
clasped  the  arm  very  close. 

He  spoke  first :  a  sudden  turn  in 
the  road  showed  them,  between 
arching   boughs   of   crimson  and 


Orou  Pttrpaet* 


151 


golden  beecheB,  the  flashing  blne- 
11688  of  an  early  monung  sea  lying 
Ux  below,  dotted  here  and  tiieze 
with  a  8iK>w-white  saiL 

'What  a  perfBct  moniingl  what 
a  perfect  soene!'  he  said,  pausing, 
and  then  recited  the  exquisite  yerses 
from  'In  Memoriam/  beginning— 

*  Calm  te  the  mem,  witbont  a  loaiil' 

She  repeated,  softly— 

'If  mj  aim,  a  calm  deqwlr/ 

let  herself  linger  leaning  on  him  a 
few  moments,  then  snatched  her 
hand  from  his  arm,  choking  with 
the  thought, '  It  will  never  be  there 
again  V  looked  before  and  after,  and 
said— 

'  I  am  near  home  now,  and  I  have 
a  few  words  to  speak  to  you  first' 

She  leant  back  against  the  low 
wall,  and  tried  with  all  her  might 
to  calm  herself,  that  he  might  not 


see  how  much  she  was  agita 
She  snoceeded  only  too  well:  her 
soft  dark  cheek  lost  its  bloom, 
tomed  yellowish-white;  but  she 
looked  prond  and  sullen,  rather 
than  scNTrowful. 

He  pansed  before  her,  fall  of 
wcmder  at  her  changed  manner— at 
her  dry,  haid,  nngirlish  tone  of 
voice. 

'Yon  haye  often  said  I  did  not 
loye  you,'  she  began.  '  I  am  going 
now  to  confirm  all  the  eyil  yon 
have  ever  thought  of  me.  I  wish 
to  break  our  engagement:  I  wish  to 
be  free  from  you,  and  to  set  you 
firae  from  me.' 

He  was  silent  some  moments: 
she  tzied  to  look  at  him,  but  fiuling, 
kept  her  eyes  upon  the  faHea  beech- 
masts,  which  she  stirred  with  her 
foot. 

'  WhaVs  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

Whai  he  spoke,  he  spc^e  so 
sternly  that  she  felt  a&aid. 

'I  haye  tried  to  speak  plainly,' 
she  said.  'I  wish  to  be  free,  to 
marry  any  one  else'  (if  he  had  un- 
deistood  the  inflection  of  her  yoico, 
he  would  haye  learnt  frcnn  it  that 
in  the  world  there  was  none  else  for 
her),  'or  to  remain  single;  and  I 
wish  you  to  be  firae  to  marry  some 
one  elso—arane  one  who  will  loye 
you  better  than  I  do.*  (That  same 
inflection  of  the  yoice.)     '  I  know 


now  that  I  oould  not  be  ba|^y  aa 
your  wife,  and  that  you  would  ncyt 
be  happy  as  my  husband.' 

His  oolour  had  risen  angrily ;  he 
kicked  some  stones  from  under  his 
feet  with  an  energy  that  sent  them 
spinning  far  down  the  road. 

'  I  haye,  I  think,  some  slight  right 
to  an  explanation,'  he  said— his 
yoioe  was  not  steady,—^'  oonsideriDg 
that  in  a  few  months  you  were  to 

haye  been What  did  you  say?* 

(She  had  echoed  'were  to  haye 
been.') 

'Nothing,'  she  answered:  'go 
on.' 

'  Considering  that  in  a  few  months 
you  were  to  haye  been  my  wife; 
considering  that  tiie  last  six  months 
haye  been  passed  by  me  in  preparing 
to  receive  you  as  my  wifa^ 

'  Your  notion  of  fit  prepacation  to 
receive  me  as  your  wife  seems  to 
me  a  strange  one!*  she  cried,  pas- 
sionately; and  then  repented  this 
utterance.  He  had  caught  the 
words,  and  paused  upon  them. 

'What  does  this  mean?  Who  has 
been  tampering  with  you?  Who 
has  been  exciting  your  jealousy  ?' 

'  If  I  am  jealous,  you  are  well  rid 
of  ma  A  jeidous  woman  is  an 
accursed  thing— I've  heard  you  say 
so  yourself- from  which  ;^ou  should 
be  glad  to  escape.' 

'  A  jealous  woman  u  an  accursed 
thing.  But  in  you,  Edith,  I  have 
never  yet  seen  a  sign  of  this  disease.' 

'  Then  don't  be  too  ready  to  be- 
lieve me  easily  taintod  by  it  Look 
into  your  own  heart,  tiid  find  a 
cause  for  what  I  do.' 

'No  man,'  he  said,  'in  my 
opinion,  was  ever  worthy  of  any 
good  woman's  love;  that  I  de- 
voutly believe;  but  further * 

'  It  is  no  use  to  talk  it  over.  I 
know  of  old  erpGneaee  you  can 
make  me  say  black's  white.  I  haye 
said  what  I  mean  to  abide  by,  and 
so  I  shan't  listen  fcnr  your  answer. 
I  have  spoken  roughly,  rudely, 
coarsely;  but  I  have  spoken  as  I 
was  able — what  I  knew  I  ought  to 
speak.  Now  I  am  not  going  to 
listen  to  yon:  you  have  listened  to 
me,  that  is  enough.  Good-bye!  and 
I  wish  you  all  hi^piness.' 

She  began  to  walk  away  from 
him;  but  she  did  not  dare  diaobey 


152 


Cross  Purpoiss* 


the  Tdoe  that  ooxnmanded  her  to 

Snse.  He  took  both  her  hands  in 
I,  looked  into  her  fietce,  trying  to 
meet  her  eyes,  but  they  would  not 
rise  higher  than  his  hands;  they 
noticed  a  hole  in  his  gloye,  for  which 
she  would  yesterday  have  scolded 
him,  taking  off  his  glove— taking  it 
home  to  mend.  A  quick  sob  sur- 
prised her,  as  she  thought  of  this. 
He  said — 

'I  do  not  know  you  to-day, 
Edith :  you  have  strangely  changed 
in  the  few  days  of  my  absence.  Tou 
are  a  hard  and  reckless  woman  this 
morning:  you  seem  to  haye  no  feel- 
ing for  me,  or  my  pain.' 

'  Your  pain !'  ("  You  hypocrite !" 
she  said,  but  only  to  her  own 
heart,)  and  added,  to  her  own  heart, 
'  He  is  no  hypocrite;  he  is  too  good 
not  to  feel  pain.  Your  pain,'  she 
repeated  aloud, '  won't  last  long  if 
we  part  now ;  while  if  we  married, 
not  loving  each  other,  I  suppose  our 
pain  would  have  to  last  our  life- 
times.' 

'Whatismy&ult?  How  have  I 
so  suddenly  forfeited  my  right  to 
your  love?  What  have  I  done  or 
left  undone?* 

'We  are  curiously  made,'  she 
answered.  '  I  do  not  know  what  of 
that  we  do  or  leave  undone  is  fault, 
and  what  is  fortune.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose we  would  any  one  of  us  act  as 
we  do,  when  we  act  what  we  call 
wrongly,  if  we  could  help  it  If  I 
have  been  angry  with  you,  and  said 
it  was  your  fftult,  I  am  not  angry 
now.  How  can  it  be  your  &ult  that 
I  do  not  love  you?' 

'It  is  some  fault  in  me,  then— 
some  fault  so  suddenly  discovered.' 

He  paid  no  heed  to  the  last 
phrase  of  her  sentence;  indeed  the 
eyes,  liquid,  and  as  full  of  love  as  of 
pain,  which  had  met  his  for  an  in- 
stant, had  given  the  lie  to  it. 

'  I  didn't  say  so.  I  won't  say  any- 
thing, except  I  wish  to  be  free. 
Tyrant  1  let  go  my  hands  1'  she 
cried. 

'You  poor  little  soull'  he  said, 
compassionately, '  what  are  you  thus 
tormenting  yourself  about?  Tell  me 
your  trouble,  my  child.  I  cannot 
believe  that  you  do  not  love  me ! — 
I  do  not  believe  it!' 

'Oh,  no  I'  she  answered,  her  face 


on  fire ;  'it  must  be  hard  for  tho 
irresistible  Mr.  Herbert  Oldenshaw, 
of  Firlands,  to  believe  that  any  wo- 
man to  whom  he  has  been  kind  does 
not  love  him,  or  his  estate.  Leave 
me  alone,  sir!  Let  me  go !' 

'Go  then!  I  see,  Edith,  that  if  I 
keep  you  any  longer  in  your  present 
mood,  I  shall  only  lead  you  to  speak 
words  you  will  afterwards  be  sorry 
for :  but  I  do  not  do  you  the  injustice 
to  believe  that  you  are  serious.' 
One  more  earnest  look,  and  then  he 
dropped  her  hands. 

'That  is  like  you!  I  was  moro 
than  mortal  while  I  loved  you; 
now ' 

'  While  you  loved  me  you  were 
a  sweet  woman,  not  all  honey,  but 
all  the  more  bewitching  for  a  dash 

of  spice ;  now ^You  seem  to  mo 

thoronghly  unamiable.' 

'I  dare  say  I  do!  I  dare  say  I 
am!  You  may  say  it  was  incom- 
patibility of  temper  that  led  to  tho 
breaking  of  our  engagement' 

'When  I  acknowledge  it  as  a 
broken  engagement  I  may.  At 
present  I  do  not  relinquish  youf 
At  present  I  am  of  my  old  opinion : 
I  had  rather  haye  you  scold  and 
love  me,  than  any  other  woman 
praise  and  flatter  me^  I  do  not 
know  that  it  is  good  taste,  but  it  is 
mine.' 

' "  A  poor  ill-&youred  thing,  but 
mine,  sir,  mine."  I  understand.  But 
now  I  have  lost  all  charm  for  you, 
for  I  am  no  longer  yours,  sir,  bat 
mine,  sir,  mine.  And  how  you  dare 
pay  to  me  what  you  have  jost  said, 
I  leave  you  to  ask  your  own  con- 
science. It  is  all  a  mystery  to  mo 
-all.' 

She  broke  from  him  and  ran 
down  the  road. 

He  remained  a  long  time  where 
she  had  left  him ;  he  was  yexed  and 
pained,  but  more  for  her  than  for 
himself,  and  not  in  any  way  very 
seriously  distressed;  he  did  not 
believe  but  that  she  would  be  hi» 
wife  at  the  appointed  time  after  all. 
But  this  outbreak  of  temper  grieved 
him :  he  was  disappointed  in  her,  and 
perplexed  to  find  a  cause  for  such 
an  unexpected  demonstration.  It 
was  not  till,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  several  of  his  friends — that  is 
to  say,  the  doctor  and  the  clergy- 


Cr(M  Pwrpoges. 


158 


man,  and  the  widow  who  owned 
Belle-yne— had  condoled  with  him 
on  the  breaking-off  of  his  engage- 
ment, and  two  ladies,  with  nmneioos 
daughters.  Hying  respeotiyely  at 
Fnrzey  Down  and  at  Beanchamps, 
had  congratulated  him  on  the  same 
&ct,  that  he  began  to  be,  at  least, 
seriously  annoyd. 

Hie  little  tormentress,  after 
leaTing  him,  ran  down  the  road  till 
she  came  to  a  green  gate  oversha- 
dowed, like  all  the  rest  of  the  road, 
by  beeches ;  it  led  intoa  small  garden, 
— ^lawn,  fir-trees,  and  bright  flower- 
beds,—lying  in  front  of  a  pretty 
ivied  cottage,  behind  which  the  hill 
rose  protectingly.  The  largest  room 
of  this  cottage  had  a  long  window 
opening  on  to  the  gravelled  path. 
SiGss  Gaysworth,  Edith's  invalid  and 
lame  sister-she  was  fifteen  years 
older  than  Edith,  and  had  been  a 
mother  to  her— lay  on  a  conch  in  the 
sunshine  of  this  window. 

Edith  went  to  her:  she  always 
liked  to  get  things  over  quickly.  She 
now  said,  '  Herbert  is  come  back. 
I've  seen  him  and  I've  broken  off  my 
engagement  to  him.  I  shall  never 
many  him,  or  anybody.  I  am 
sorrv  yon  took  such  a  fanc^  to  Fir- 
lands,  Lily;  but  yon  like  this 
cottage  very  mnch,  too,  and  you'll 
get  more  of  me,  so  there's  compen- 
sation for  you.  No,  I  can't  stay 
to  answer  any  questions.  I  am  off 
now  to  the  Sea-wall  House ;  I  shall 
be  late  for  the  children's  lessons. 
I  don't  wish  ever  to  be  spoken  to 
about  my  engagement,  or  about 
Herbert  Not  that  he's  to  blame :  / 
broke  it  off;  h^s  not  to  blame ;  and  I 
wish  all  the  world  to  know  (all  our 
small  world)  that  it  is  broken  off, 
and  that  he's  not  to  blame.  Ton 
used  to  teU  me,  Lily,  I  could  never 
hope  to  get  a  husband  if  I  didn't 
curb  my  temper,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  get  one  yon  see.  Qood-bye,  Lily, 
don't  fret  about  it  Here's  your 
book,  dear,  and  here's  your  work, 
and  I've  ordered  Jane  to  bring  your 
lunch  in  to  yon  at  eleven,  and  I'm 
sorry  I've  been  out  so  long,  and  I've 
asked  Gertrude  to  come  and  see  us, 
and  I  shall  be  more  at  home  with 
yon  for  the  future.' 

All   this  was   said   in  hurried, 
gasping  sentences :  then  she  kissed 


the  invalid,  and  was  q£  She  was 
daily  governess  to  the  motherless 
childr^  at  the  Sea-wall  House, 
whose  master  was  Mr.  Herbert 
Oldenshaw's  elder  brother;  a  grave 
man,  aged  and  worn  by  sufferings 
who  treated  her  with  fatherly  kind- 
ness, and  whom  she  loved  dearly. 

'  I  don't  seem  to  feel  it  much,'  she 
said,  as  she  went  down  the  road  in 
the  glancing  sunshine,  the  dancing 
sea  glittering  before  her  eyes.  'The 
world  looks  just  the  same  merry 
world:  nothing  seems  changed. 
People  say,  at  all  events  in  books— I 
don't  know  that  I've  ever  heard  any 
real  person  speak  about  these  things 
— ^that  to  do  what  I  have  done  re- 
quires an  almost  superhuman  effort 
of  self-sacrifice.  Ifl  felt  it  as  I  ought, 
I  ought  to  have  fiunted,  or  at  least  to 
have  cried  violently.  Perhaps  I  did 
not  love  him  so  very  much  after  all. 
Yet  I  think  I  did.  Perhaps  I  do 
not  yet  believe  that  I  have  lost  him. 
I  think  that  is  it.  All  the  pain  is 
to  come.  I  caught  myself  just  now 
thinking  of  this  evening,  when  he 
would  be  with  us — when  he  would 
read  to  Lily  and  me  while  we 
work,  and  we  should  be  so  happy. 
And  he  won't  come  this  evening,  or 
ever  again  any  evening.  All  the 
pain  is  to  come.    God  help  me !' 

Those  last  words,  the  words  of 
self-pity,  did  the  mischief. 

Suddenly  something  came  over 
her — an  overwelming^uncontrollable 
feeling :  she  went  out  of  the  road, 
through  a  gate,  and  hid  herself  in  a 
little  thicket;  there  she  cried  as  if 
her  heart  would  break,  her  face 
buried  to  stifle  the  sound.  She  rose, 
dried  her  eyes,  looked  at  her  watch, 
smoothed  her  hair,  readjusted  her 
hat,  said  to  herself,  'I  am  better 
now— but  I  am  very  late,'  and 
hurried  down  the  steep  drive  to  the 
House. 

From  a  distance  she  saw  all  her 
little  pupils  playing  on  the  sands — 
those  deep  golden  sands  of  the  Isle 
of  Wight  She  went  to  them  there, 
and  they  came  clustering  around 
her. 

'Oh,  Edith,  we  thought  you 
wem't  coming  to-day.  Uncle  Herbert 
said  you  weren't  coming  to-day. 
Papa  said  you  wem't  coming  every 
day  now,  because  Uncle  Herbert  is 


154 


Qrou  FwrfOBtB. 


back,  and  wants  jon  to  be  ao  mtieh 
witbhim.' 

'  Oh  yea,  I  am  coxumg  ercffy  day 
now.  Your  UDde  Herbert  is  mis- 
takea,  and  yoor  pea^  who  ia  always 
right,  and  who  is  «  great  deal  wiser 
than  yonr  Uncle  Herbert^  is  aJso 
mistaken.  And  oome  in  to  lessons 
now,  at  onoe,  like  dear  good  children, 
for  it*s  very  late.' 

'You've  been  exying!'  said  one 
child.  'You've  been  crying!'  was 
echoed  by  all. 

'And  I'll  make  you  all  cry/  said 
this  very  original  little  governess, 
'  if  you  don't  let  me  alone.' 

'  Me  so  sorry  Edie  been  crying,' 
said  the  youngest  little  girl,  and 
slipped  her  hand  into  Edith's. 

'  xou  darling,  you  dear  pet !'  cried 
the  governess,  and  kneeling  down, 
she  took  the  lovely  little  fairy  in  her 
arms,  smothered  her  with  kims,  and 
carried  her  to  the  house. 

'  Me  Uncle  Bertie's  pet,  too/  the 
child  said. 

And  just  at  the  house-door  atood 
Uncle  Bertie. 

'  Edith,  that  child  is  too  heavy  for 
you.'  He  chose  to  speak  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  a  fact  which 
filled  the  girl  with  great  indignation. 

'  Mr.  Herbert  Oldensha  w,  I  am  the 
best  judge  of  thai' 

'  Indeed  you  are  not.  I  do  not 
think  you  are  a  good  judge  of  any- 
thing that  concerns  yourself.  Amy, 
come  to  me,  darling.' 

But  Amy  chose  to  be  perverse : 
she  clung  to  Edith's  neck  and  said, 
'  Poor  Edie  been  crying/  as  a  suffi- 
cient reason. 

'  Uncle  Herbert '  stood  so  directly 
in  Edith's  way  that  she  knew  he 
could  see  this  for  himself,  flereyes 
met  his  defiantly.  'Cruel!'  she 
muttered,  as  she  passed  him.  She 
drove  all  her  pupils  before  her  into 
the  large  schoolroom,  and  locked  the 
door. 

That  schoolroom  had  three  great 
south  windows  looking  right  out  to 
sea  (you  could  perceive  a  bit  of 
golden  gravelly  shore  if  you  stood 
close  to  them,  but  not  unless) :  it  had 
also  two  eastern  windows  looking 
upon  a  green  turf  bank,  gorse- 
studded,  sloping  down  to  black  rook 
and  grey  boulder.  The  room  was 
fall  of  sunshine,  and  the  heat  and 


the  light  made  Edith  giddy;  she 
had  to  drawdown  the  blinds;  and 
whan  she  went  to  draw  them  down 
she  saw  Mr.  Oldenshaw  (her  master, 
as  she  loved  to  call  him)  walking 
to  and  fro,  close  to  the  water,  leaning 
on  his  younger  brother's  aim ;  they 
were  talking  earnestly.  How  bent 
and  aged  her  master  looked*  and  he 
was  not  BO  vary  much  older  than 
Lilyl 

What  would  her  master  think 
of  her  YfbsD.  he  heard  ?  The  young 
governess  was  preoccupied  this 
morning. 

That  evening,  Mr.  Oldenshaw— 
that  is  to  say,  Edith's  Mr.  Olden- 
shaw—chose  to  come  to  the  cottage 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  since  he 
was  last  there.  He  brought  the  book 
with  him  he  had  been  reading  to 
them,  then  took  the  seat  by  Miss 
Gavsworth's  invalid  couch*  that  he 
had  occupied  then.  Sedng  this, 
Edith  without  a  word  to  him, 
having  given  him  one  indignant 
look,  gathered  up  her  work  and  left 
the  room. 

From  the  bedroom  above  ahe 
heard  voices  all  the  evening,  now 
her  sister's,  now  Mr.  Oldensnaw's, 
one  low-toned  interchange  of  talk. 

'  Of  course  Lily  will  think  I  am 
using  him  very  badly.  Of  course 
everybody  will  think  I  am  using 
him  very  badly.  What  does  that 
matter  to  me  ?  I  have  done  what  I 
thought  was  right  to  be  done.  I 
know  I  did  it  very  badly,  but  that  is 
my  misfortune.  I  meant  to  be 
gentle  and  dignified*  all  I  am  always 
trying  to  be,  and  never,  never  can 
succeed  in  being.  Well!  he  is  well 
rid  of  me :  I  never  should  have  made 
a  proper  Mrs.  Oldenshaw  of  Fir< 

lands.    Now  Gertrude  is ;  oh,  I 

hate  Gertrude  1'  said  with  the  heart- 
iest, honestest  energy.  'That  is 
very  wicked  too !'  she  added ;  '  and 
I'm  afraid  when  nobody  loves  me  I 
shall  be  very  wicked.' 

She  went  on  thinking  strange 
confused  thoughts  as  she  employ^ 
herself  in  turning  out  her  writing- 
case,  jewel-case,  and  secret  sacred 
drawer,  collecting  his  letters,  his  pre- 
sents, all  kept  religiously,  whether 
flowers  or  jewels. 

'  Perhaps  he  will  believe  that  I 
am  in  earnest  when  he  gets  th^/ 


OrosB  FwfOBeB^ 


15S 


she  said,  with  an  emphasiB  laaentfal 
of  his  present  incredulity.  '  If  he 
will  only  go  away,  leave  off  ^Mining 
hare,  after— well,  after  he  has  made 
it  all  straight  with  Gertrude.  If  I 
have  to  go  on  seeing  him,  perhaps 
I  may  in  time  aziive  at  a  pK^per 
pitch  of  distraction.'  Scoffing  at 
narself ,  she  pressed  her  hand  v^khi 
her  heart  '  I  always  h»ve  said  I 
did  not  know  I  had  <me,  bnt  I'm 
going  to  learn  that  I  have  now  by 
this  pain  that's  beginning.' 

By-and-by,  lookmg  over  the  pages 
of  a  journal  she  had  once,  girlie- 
fashion,  kept,  ion  fear  of  accidents, 
in  a  cypher  of  her  own  invention, 
she  leaa  (dated  the  30th  of  Novem- 
ber, nearly  three  years  ago)— 

'  I  did  not  think  such  a  dismal 
day  could  have  «nded  so  pleasantly : 
such  a  dismal  day!  passed  in  an 
ugly  schoolroom  among  rude  chil- 
di«n,  a  wet  street  and  wet  people  to 
look  out  at:  nothing  to  look  for- 
ward to  but  the  tedious  change  of  a 
couple  of  hours  spent  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, over  my  fancy  -  work, 
among  people  who  must  dislike 
having  me  as  much  as  I  dislike 
being  with  them.  Ah!'  she  said« 
breaking  off  from  her  reading  and 
thinking  aloud, '  howdifferant  things 
ware  then  I  We  were  so  poor,  I 
could  not  keep  a  home  for  Lily.  She 
boarded  with  those  wretched  people 
who  neglected  her  so,  and  I  had  to 
take  the  highest-paying  sitnaticm  I 
could  get,  and  try  not  to  care  if  I 
were  miserable  or  not  Who  made 
eveiything  different?  Es  did.  I 
might  go  through  as  many  verses  as 
there  are  in  the  "My  Mother" 
poem,  in  the  chikiren's  book,  and, 
making  my  own  list  of  questions, 
say,  "  He  did  1"  in  answer  to  all  of 
them.  Well,  I  am  trying,  in  my 
awkward,  staind  way,  that  is  so 
hard,  for  it  seems  sudi  a  wicked 
ungrateful  way,  to  reward  him.  I 
wish,  though,  he  wouldn't  look  so 
pained  about  it' 

She  thought  for  some  time,  tiien 
she  went  on  reading,  slowly  and 
blunderingly,  from  her  journal : — 

'The  evening  of  tins  wretched 
day  I  go  down  into  the  drawing- 
room  as  usual,  and  there  is  aperson 
there  who  turns  round  as  I  enter 
and  comes  to  meet  me,  who  takes 


my  hand  and  looks  at  me  so  kmdly 
tluU;,  what  with  surprise  and  what 
with  pleasure,  the  teaxs  come  into 
my  eyes,  and  it  is  a  wcmder  that  I 
don't  startle  all  propdeties  by  put- 
ting my  arms  round  his  neek  I  He 
places  a  chair  for  me  next  his  own, 
and  pushes  a  footstool  to  my  feet, 
and  reaches  me  my  woirk-oase.  H!ow 
did  he  know  what  I  was  looking 
for?  or  which  was  mine?  Why 
didn't  he  give  me  Mrs.  Dyson's 
instead?  Surely  he  didn't  remem- 
ber the  shabby  little  thing?  He 
altogether  to  take  possession 


of  me,  as  if  he  pitied  the  poor  little 
lonely  thing,  and  meant  to  caxe  for 
it  and  pet  it  And  he  breaks  off  his 
talk  with  Mr.  Dyson,  and  talks  to 
me  of  lily,  and  Lily's  health ;  and  of 
how  he  thinks  she  needs  milder 
air;  and  of  how  his  brother  has  a 
pretty  cottage  to  let,  in  just  such  a 
place  as  he  thinks  would  suit  lily ; 
and  then  he  tells  me  that  his  brotiuar 
wants  a  governess  for  his  motherless 
childron,  and  so  he  talks  on,  open- 
ing up  a  new  and  such  a  bright 
prospect,  though  he  dashes  every- 
thkg  a  little  by  tolling  me  he  is 
soon  going  to  India  again  for  two 
years.  And  when  he  turns  from  me 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Djson  again,  his  arm 
is  gtili  on  the  back  of  my  chair,  and 
his  voice  lulls  me  to  a  dream,  and 
all  the  world  is  changed  for  me,  for 
lieiblhA  remembers.  And  when  Mrs. 
Dyson's  soft  voice  says  in  my  ear, 
''  Miss  Gaysworth,  I  think  you  have 
forgotten  the  children:  it  is  long 
past  their  bed-time,"  I  start  as  if  I 
had  had  cold  water  flung  over  me, 
and  rise  in  awkward  haste,  throwing 
scissors,  4;himble,  cotton,  on  the  floor 
— forhCfmtopickupl  And  he  asked 
me  should  he  see  me  again  that 
night ;  and  when  I  said  a  reluctant 
"No,"  he  asked  Mrs.  Dyson  at  what 
time  he  could  see  me  in  the  morn- 
ing, "to  talk  over  fomily-<affidrs ; 
for  Mrs.  Dyson,  she  is,  I  consider, 
a  aort  of  a  ward  of  mine!"  A  sort 
of  a  ward!    I  feelas  if  he  would 

only * 

There  the  journal  broke  off  for 
that  time ;  but  she  vead  a  fow  later 
entries  and  then  told  herself  to  de- 
sist—that she  was  doing  the  worst 
thing,  tiie  stupidest  thing  ponnbie. 
But  her  thoughts  were  not  much 


156 


Croa  Pwrpote$, 


safer:  she  lemembered  all  hiaworda 
and  looks— remembered  the  coming 
to  the  presoit  home,  prepared  by 
him  for  her  and  Lily,  remembered 
the  parting  and  hia  retnml  The 
bedroom  was  oold  and  cheerlees, 
her  ccmdle  had  burnt  down  to  the 
socket:  she  listened  to  the  voices 
downstairs,  beloved  voices  both,  and 
thought  of  the  lamp-light,  the  fire- 
light, the  kind  eyes,  the  loving 
hands,  the  cheerfulness  and  the 
warmth  there— and  then,  very  un- 
heroically,  she  begEui  to  cry. 

The  voices  ceased :  the  halI*door 
opened  and  dosed:  she  waited  to 
hear  the  click  of  the  garden-gate 
and  the  sound  of  footsteps  down  the 
road. 

'  He  didn't  stop  as  long  as  usual,' 
she  said  carelessly  to  lily,  as,  having 
bathed  her  eyes,  she  entered  the 
sitting-room. 

'  No;  he  said  he  would  not  keep 
you  up  in  the  cold.  Oh,  Edith  I 
what  has  possesaed  you  ?  How  can 
you  treat  such  a  man  in  this  way? 
A  man  who  has  been  so  good  to  us, 
so  very  good.  Surely,  child,  it  is 
only  a  ft^,  if  ao,  a  wicked  one ;  but 
anything  is  better  than  to  believe 
you  can  seriously  mean  to  be  so—' 

Edith  interrupted  her. 

'  I  am  trying  to  be  good  to  him 
in  return  for  his  goodness  to  us.  If 
the  goodness  of  a  deed  is  to  be 
judged,  as  some  people  seem  to 
think,  by  its  hardness,  I  am  being 
very  good  to  him.  You  can't  see 
how?  I  dare  say  not;  but  some 
day  you  will;  till  then  you  must 
try  and  trust  me.' 

'  But,  Edith ' 

'  But,  Lily— I  have  told  you,  and 
I  tell  you  again,  I  will  not  hear  you 
or  any  one  on  this  subject  There  I 
I  have  made  you  cry.  Tea,  that  is 
justhowitalwaysis.  I  am  a  wretched 
oreatore,  bom  to  make  everyone 
unhappy,  especially  every  one  who 
loves  me.  If  you  only  knew,  Lily ' 
— ^here  she  knelt  by  her  sistePs 
couch  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
sister's  dress—'  how  it  hurts  I  how 
it  hurts!  how  miserable  I  ami  you 
would  cry  for  me,  Lily,  insteaa  of 
crying  for  him.' 

'  I  cry  for  him,  Edith  1'  her  sister 
said,  but  drew  the  girl  fondly  close. 
'  I  never  could  bear  to  see  a  man 


suffer,  and  he  is  suffering.  Tou  have 
only  to  watch  him,  to  look  into  his 
eyes,  and  to  see  the  way  he  twitches 
hia  mouth  and  gnaws  his  moustache. 
No,  Edith,  I  never  oould  bear  to  see 
a  man  suffer.  It  nearly  breaks  my 
heart  when  your  master,  aa  you  call 
him,  sits  by  me  and  talks  to  me,  so 
gently,  so  kindly,  with  his  eyes 
seeing  and  his  heart  suffering,  so 
fu  away ;  and  Herbert's  fiue  will  got 
to  have  the  same  look  if  you  use 
him  so  badly.' 

'The  hypocrite!'  cried  Edith. 
'  No,  no,  no,— I  don't  mean  that  I 
know  he  is  suffering,  but  never 
mind  him,  lily,  it  will  soon  pass; 
he  will  be  happier  soon  than  I  ever 
could  make  him.' 

'Child,  child,  you  talk  very 
wildly — very  wickedly.  You  seem 
to  have  no  opinion  of  the  futhful- 
ness  of  the  man  you  are  playing 
with.' 

'I  am  playing  with  no  man.  You 
are  a  cruel  sister  to  say  I  am.  Oh, 
I  have  the  very  highest  opinion  of 
Mr.  Herbert  Oldenshaw's  fiuthful- 
ness.  He  would  marry  a  girl  he 
had  ceased  to  love,  and  break  the 
heart  of  one  he  did  love,  sooner  than 
break  his  word.  That  is  my  opinion 
of  lus  fiiithfalnessl  And  now  no 
more  about  him— not  a  word.  He 
is  a  good  man  and  a  true  one;  I 
hope  be  will  be  a  happy  one !' 

'  What  crotchet  can  you  have  got 
into  your  head?*  murmured  Miss 
Gaysworth,  and  dared  say  no  more ; 
but  she  lav  awake  all  through  the 
night  pondering  this  matter  over, 
and  was  consequently  ill  the  next 
morning.  She  was  a  very  frail 
creature.  She  would  in  all  proba- 
bility have  been  dead  before  this 
time  had  she  not  been  transplanted 
to  the  soft-breathed,  sheltered,  sunny 
southern  nook  where  she  now  dwelt 
And  it  was  Mi.  Herbert  Oldenshaw's 
care  that  had  thus  transplanted  her. 
He  had  known  these  women  well  in 
prosperous  days,  begizming  at  a  be- 
ginning when  Edith  was  a  little 
child ;  their  dead  brother  had  been 
his  dearest  friend.  Coming  home 
from  India,  on  family  business,  soon 
after  they  had  fallen  into  sudden 
poverty,  he  had  made  it  his  care  to 
care  for  them. 


Orou  PurpOMS. 


167 


CHAPTER  IL 

A  few  days  passed  Tery  painftdly, 
during  which  Mr.  Herbert  Olden- 
shaw  still  came  to  Iyj  Oottage,  still 
sought  to  meet  Edith  there,  on  the 
road,  or  at  the  Sea-wall  House,  and 
she  still  obstinately  avoided  him.  A 
diversion  came  in  the  arriyal  of 
'  Gertrude/  a  tall,  fair,  statelv  girl, 
who  might  have  been  most  lovely 
had  she  not  had  a  wan,  sickly  look, 
and  who  drooped  now  like  a  droop- 
ing lily. 

'Isn't  she  the  very  ideal  of  a 
love-sick  girl?' asked  Edith  soom- 
f  ally  of  her  sister.  '  The  very  bajag 
of  her  dress,  and  droop  of  her  hair, 
and  fall  of  her  lashes,  suggest  a  sen- 
timental despondency.  I  hope  I 
could  die  of  love  and  not  show  the 
green  sickness  of  it  so  plainly.' 

'I  wonder  why  you  asked  Ger- 
trude here,  Edith  V 

'Don't  you  like  having  her?' 

*  Yes,  I  was  always  fond  of  her; 
but  her  company  can  be  no  pleasure 
to  me  if  you  are  vexed  and  irritated 
by  her,  and  cannot  treat  her  kindly 
without  constantly-recurring  efifort' 

'Perhaps,'  said  Edith,  'I  have 
undertaken  more  than  I  can  go 
through  with.  An  old  trick  of 
mine!  I  shall  see.  If  I  find  I 
have  I  can  go  away  somewhere.' 

'  Oousin  Edith,  can  you  spare  me 
a  few  minutes  before  you  go  out?' 
asked  Gertrude  that  morning  at 
break&st-time.  The  languid  ca- 
dence of  the  mournful  musical 
voice  made  Edith,  who  had  been 
trying  to  be  kind,  cross  directly. 

'  I  always  like  to  get  disagreeable 
things  over;  so,  if  you  have  any- 
thing to  say,  I  will  hear  it  now,'  she 
answered,  roughly.  '  Come  a  little 
way  up  the  hill  behind  the  cottage 
witii  me.  Jane's  ears  are  sharp, 
and  old  Wilson  is  brushing  up 
leaves  in  the  garden.  What's  the 
use  of  brushing  up  leaves,  I  won- 
der! I  am  always  brushing  up 
leaves,  and  they  fall  thicker  and 
faster;  and  it  is  all  smothered  up 
with  them  again,  just  as  it  was  b^ 
fore.'  These  last  words  to  herself. 
'  Don  t  you  want  your  shawl, 
Ger?  The  wind  is  sharp,  and  you 
look  such  a  skim-milk  sort  of  crea- 
ture.' 


'  I  will  get  it,  and  join  you  in  a 
minute;  Gertrude  answered,  meekly. 

The  two  girls  were  soon  together 
on  one  of  the  terraces  cut  m  the 
hUl  behind  the  cottage.  But  Ger- 
trude stood  panting  after  the  slight 
ascent,  and  did  not  spea^. 

Edith  looked  at  her  watch.  '  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  ought  to  be 
down  there,'  pointing  to  the  Sea- 
wall House,  lying  below. 

'  It  is  strange  to  me,  Edith,'  the 
girl  began,  timidly  (this  stately,  tall 
Gertrude  seemed  curiously  to  dread 
her  little  companion),  'why  you 
asked  me  to  come  and  see  you.  I 
was  glad  to  come,  dear,  because  I 
thought ' 

'  WeU,  what  did  you  think?' 

'  I  thought  you  had  some  special 
reason  for  asking  me.  I  thought, 
perhaps,  you  knew ' 

'  I  do  know— oZ^  I  meant  to  be 
good  to  you,  but  I  find  it  difficult' 

'  I  never  would  have  come,  Edith, 
if  only  lily  had  asked  me;  but  as 
you  asked  me  I  thought  I  had 
better  come.  I  though^  I  hoped, 
some  good  might  arise  out  of  it. 
But  now  I  see  my  mistake;  my 
presence  is  painful  to  you.  Mr. 
Oldenshaw'  (that  name  spc^en  so 
tremulously !)  '  has  not  been  to  the 
cottage  since  I  came;  though  Lily 
tells  me  he  used  to  be  here  con- 
stantly.' 

'  Does  she  think  he  wottld  court 
her  under  my  nose!'  Edith  ex- 
claimed to  herself,  and  plunged 
her  hand  into  a  gorse-busn,  inflict- 
ing a  salutary  pricking. 

'I  do  not  see  that  my  being 
here  can  do  any  good,'  continued 
Gertrude;  'it  is  evidently  painful 
to  you.  I  want  to  ask  you,  do  you 
not  think  I  had  better  go?' 

The  tone  of  shrinking  timidity, 
of  submission,  of  resignation,  in 
which  Gertrude  spoke,  touched 
Edith's  generosity. 

'  No,'  she  said ;  '  you  shall  not 
go,  Gertrude:  if  either  of  us  go 
away,  I  will,  while  you  stay  with 
Lily.  Lily  is  very  fond  of  you^  and 
Lily  is  gentie  to  you.  I  have 
wanted  a  change  for  a  long  time.' 

Gertrude  lifted  her  lashes  and 
opened  her  languid  eyes  wide— per- 
haps she  was  wondering  what 
change  this  girl  could  want—this 


Ifi6 


OoM  Piirpotet. 


girl,  wlio  ymald  booh  be  lo  bappDy 
Buurrisd  (for  lilj  had  moealfttod 
h»  wiih  the  beliaf  that  thia  oloiid 
between  the  lovers  waa  only  doe  to 
some  childish  freak  of  Edith'a,  irbkh 
would  paas). 

'  I  cannot  hme  tiuit  I  caimot 
driye  you  fioia  yonr  hraoe,  Edith. 
What  would  Mi;  Oldenahaw  say? 
Indeed,  iodeed,  I  think  I  had 
better  go.' 

'  Not  another  word.  Yon  are  not 
to  go.  And— what  has  Lily  been 
saying  to  yon  aboat  my  engage- 
ment? Oh,  I  see;  but  she  is  quite 
wrong.  My  eagagament  is  finally 
and  definitely  brokan  o£El  I  am 
£ree,  and  so  is  Herbert  Ya»  must 
imow  she  ia  qnite  wrang.  I  can't 
s^y  and  talk  any  longer.  I  hate 
speaking  of  these  things.  Heisnot 
in  the  least  to  blame.  And  I  hope, 
when  I  am  gone  *way,  yoa  and  ne 
and  Lily  will  be  very  happy.' 

She  laa  down  the  hillnaide, 
leaving  QertnidB  in  a  state  of  bewil- 
dement. 

'  She  knows  all  about  it,  and  is 
annoyed--«eeretly  angry  with  me,  I 
daresay.  But  what  has  her  broken 
engagement  to  do  with  it?  Did 
they  quacrd  about  me?  I  never 
oonld  understand  Edith.  Some- 
times she  seemed  all  heart,  and 
sometimes  seemed  to  have  no  feel- 
ing for  any  one— herself  least  of  all. 
She  is  a  very  strange  girll'  But 
poor  Gertrude  had  such  much  more 
personal  troubles  and  perplexities 
growing  and  deepening  upon  her 
uiat  she  soon  fiurgot  to  think  of 
Edith. 

Just  as  she  re-entered  the  garden 
at  one  gate  she  saw  Mr.  fi«rbert 
Oldenshaw  entering  it  by  the  other, 
from  the  road:  she  drew  back,  but 
he  had  seen  her.    He  joined  her. 

'  Miss  Brown,  I  believe;  we  have 
met  before.' 

She  blushed  overpoweringly ; 
hands,  throat,  were  all  suffused 
with  crimson:  the  dying  away  of 
that  blush  left  her  so  white,  with 
such  bknohed  lipS)  he  thought  she 
was  about  to  &int  He  offered  his 
arm:  she  took  it,  because  she 
needed  it,  and  because,  for  her  own 
reasons,  she  was  only  too  glad  of 
any  sign  of  kindness  from  him. 
Her  distress  and  agitation  ware 


so  real  that  his  brow  relaxed  from 
its  stem  annoyance,  and  he  looked 
down  on  her  Idndly— reaasoniigly. 

'I will  not  ask  to  speak  to  3m 
to-day  on  any  subject  of  speoial  in- 
terest,'he  said.  '  You  seem  nerrefos 
andunafcnmg.  We  lAaU  have  ott»r 
opportnnitiea ' 

'  I  am,'  ate  said,  hurriedly,  'more 
than  nervous  and  imstrung.  I  am 
miaerabla  It  is  kind  of  you  to 
egan  me,  but  we  want  yonr  counsel. 
Oh,  if  only  you  will  be  kind  to 
us!' 

She  liflad  up  her  eyes  to  his  im- 

Sloringly,  tears  now  streaming 
own  from  them:  he  (her  hand 
resting  om.  his  arm)  could  ihel  how 
she  was  shaking. 

'  I  wish  to  be  your  trae  friend,'  he 
said;  'but  the  position  in  which 
you  have  placed  yourselves  makes 
it  very  difficult  to  know  how  to 
help  you.  And  I  so  hate  deceit  and 
concealment,  that  it  is  difficult  for 
me  to  think  kindly  of  those  who 
practise  i^— as  if  they  did  not 
bate  it' 

He  led  her  to  the  sitting-room, 
followed  her  in,  sat  talking  to  Miss 
Gaysworth,  and  was  so  preoccupied 
that  he  did  not  notice  that  Miss 
GayBWC»rth's  manner  was  a  little 
different  from  usual. 

When  he  was  gone  MissGi^ysworth 
said— 

'  Gertrude,  my"  love,  I  thought 
you  told  me  that  you  knew  Mr. 
Herbert  Oldenshaw  very  slightly.' 

'  I  have  seen  him  a  few  times  at 
his  mother's.' 

'Only  a  few  tones?' 

'  Only  a  few  times ;  and  then  not 
always  to  speak  to.' 

Lily  Qaysworth  had  strangely 
penetrating  ^es.  She  turned  them 
on  the  girl,  and  Gertrude  blushed 
again  in  that  sudden,  overpowering, 
unaccountable  way,  that  was  made 
the  more  oonspiouous  by  her  ordi- 
nary pailor. 

'  I  am  not  very  well,'  die  faltered. 
'  I  will  go  to  my  own  room.' 

On  the  stairs  she  met  Edilii. 
Edith  had  been  in  her  bed-room, 
dressing  to  go  out.  Edith  had 
heard  the  fomiliar  click  of  the  gar- 
den-gate, and  had  cautiously  drawn 
near  the  window.  Edith  had  seen 
the  meeting,  the  stem  brow  soften 


Oroia  Purpo§e9. 


159 


to  pity  10  like  tendeniess,  ansim- 
JBg  the  implormg  apwaord  look. 

Whal  eoold  she  think?  Her 
cheeks  weie  oiimwxi  and  her  eyes 
blazing  when  she  met  the  faint  and 
filtering  Oertmde  upon  the  stairs. 
She  swept  past  her. 

'  "When  morning  lessons  are  oyer 
wfll  yon  oome  to  speak  to  me  in  the 
lihnury,  Edith?'  Mi:.  Oldenshaw 
said,  looking  into  the  schoolroom. 

'  Shall  yon  be  alone  there,  sir?' 

'  Edith  r  eiied  one  of  the  diildren, 
'  yon  tell  ns  we  ought  to  answer 
papa  at  onoe,  not  ask  other  ques- 
tions instead.' 

'  I  want  yon  to  be  a  great  deal, 
better  than  I  am/  answered  the 
gOTemesSy  and  put  her  band  on  the 
boy's  mouth:  he  fell  to  kissing  tiiat 
hand.  Edith,  looking  round,  re- 
peated her  question. 

'  Tes,  I  will  be  alone  theie.' 

'  I  will  oome  then.  Ifyonhsdn't 
asked  me  I  should  have  asked 
you.' 

Aooordingly,  at  twelve  o'clock,  she 
tnxned  tiie  chilcbren  out  on  to  the 
sands  and  went  to  Mr.  Oldenahaw's 
library. 

Be  put  her  a  chais  close  to  his 
own,  and  then,  taking  her  hand  in 
his— (she  lauf^ed  neryoody,  said  it 
was  like  a  mmical  consultation,  but 
did  not  make  him  smile)— began 
indulgently — 

'Now,  tell  me  all  about  it,  child ; 
things  cannot  go  on  as  th^  are 
doing  at  pnsenk  You  axe  losing 
your  health  and  yoDi  temper.  Twice 
lately  I  haye  heard  you  Qjeak 
ahitfply  to  my  motheirlaiw  fittle 
girto.' 

'Oh,  Mr.  Oldenshaw!  I  am  so 
sorry.'  The  tears  begsa  to  drop 
alseady. 

'I  didn't  call  you  here  to  scold 
yon,  Edith,  but  to  tey  and  cure  the 
cause  of  aU  this.  Herbert  has  been 
more  like  a  son  than  a  brother  to 
me  always;  and  yon  are  like  an 
eldest  dMghter  to  me.  I  ask  you 
now  to  treat  me  as  a  &ther ;  tell 
me  all  about  it?* 

'About  what,  sir?'  Playing  with 
his  hand. 

'  I  aeyer  expect  pteyacieatim  from 
yotu,Edith.  You /mow  what  I  mean. 
What  is  the  secret  history  and  mys- 
tery of  this  foolish  business  between 


you  and  Herbert  What  did  you 
quarrel  about  ^ 

'  We  hayen't  quarrelled  at  all.  I 
broke  off  the  engagement  I  had 
reason  to  know  it  couldn't  end  in 
happiness  to  either  of  us.  I  broke  it 
off,  and  it  is  broken  off— for  always !' 

'  Don't  you  think  you  might  have 
found  out  sooner  that  it  would  be 
well  to  do  this.  Miss  Qaysworth? 
Don't  you  thii:d^  you  might  bays 
told  him  this  before  he  had  set  you 
in  the  yery  centre  of  his  life— be- 
fore he  had  bound  all  his  hopes  of 
fature  happiness  round  you  ? 

'I  told  it  him  as  soon  as  I  knew 
it  myself,  and  long,  before  what  you 
say  had  been  done,  or  long  after  it 
had  been  undone,  it  doesn't  matter 
which,'  she  answered,  in  a  tcme  that 
sounded  suUen. 

'I  neyer  thought  you  Ihultless, 
Miss  Gaysworth,  nor  in  any  way  a 
perfect  woman,  tibough  a  thoroughly 
loyable  one ;  but  I  thought  that  such 
fiuilts  as  you  had  you  would  try 
to  cure  for  Herbert's  sake.  Among 
them  I  did  not  expect  to  haye  to 
find  fickleness,  un&ithfnlnees,  prone- 
ness  to  jealousy  and  suspicion. 
From  these  things  I  should  haye 
said  you  were  singularly  free.  If 
you  haye  no  explanation  to  giye 
me,— if  yon  show  no  diiq^oeition  to 
amend  yomr  firalt,— if  you  do  not 
eyen  show  any  sorrow  for  it,  will 
you  wonder  that  a  girl,  whose  cha- 
racter I  so  little  approye,  will  hardly 
be  the  con^Mnion  and  instructress 
I  shall  choose  for  my  own  children  ?* 
Was  Mr.  Oldenshaw  trying  to 
frighten  her,  or  was  he  really  as 
angry  as  his  words  seemed  ? 

Edith  let  go  his  hand  and  folded 
her  own  in  her  lap.  Her  fisuse  looked 
sullen,  hard,  impenetrable. 

'  Haye  you  formed  any  other  at- 
tachment ?  That  is  the  only  reason 
for  your  conduct  that  can  suggest 
itself.  I  am  speaking  to  you  as  a 
fiEtther  to  a  daughter.  So  1  ask  no 
excuse  for  my  question.' 

'  Say  I  haye,  if  you  like ;  say  any- 
thing you  like  of  me.  Why  not 
belieye  one  bad  thing  as  well  as 
another?  Talk  of  speaking  to  me 
as  a  father  to  a  daughter  I  Oh,  I 
only  hope,  Mr.  Oldenshaw,  you  may 
neyer  ^fatherly  to  Amy  in  the  way 
you  are  now  to  mel' 


160 


Cro$$  Purpo9e$. 


'That  hardened,  leckless,  bitter 
tone  is  Tery  painfol  to  bear/ 

'  Oan't  you  fuicy  it  speaks  out  of 
pain  ?  And  he  lets  me  be  treated 
like  this !  He  lets  me  be  spoken  to 
like  this  r 

'  If  you  mean  Herbert,  he  does  not 
know  I  had  any  intention  of  speak- 
ing to  you.  He  defends  you,  says 
all  the  &ult  must  be  his ' 

'  But  he  doesn't  tell  you  what  is 
his  fault?' 

'  He  does  not  know  himself,  poor 
feUow.' 

'Doeshenotr 

'  Ton  insinuate,  Miss  Qaysworth, 
that  my  brother  is  much  to  blame.' 

'  I  do  not,  Mr.  Oldenshaw ;  he  is 
not  to  blame ;  nobody  is  to  blame. 
It  cannot  be  helped.  Does  not 
misery  come  often  without  blame  ?* 

'  But  in  this  instance.  Miss  Gays- 
worth * 

'  I  tell  you  what  it  is^  Mr.  Olden- 
shaw, go  on  calling  me  that;  go  on 
looking  at  me  like  that,  and — and 
— I  won't  bear  it!  I  have  lost 
Herbert !  I  have  lost  Herbert  1  Is 
not  that  enough  ?  Why  should  you 
be  cruel  ?  What  harm  have  I  done 
to  youf    I  won't  bear  to  live  if 

you *    Here  she  broke  into  such 

passionate  crying  as  will  burst  out 
from  long-restrained  complicated 
anger  and  suffering,  when  they  once 
begin  to  find  expression. 

He  walked  to  and  &o  in  the  room. 
By-and-by  he  paused  behind  her, 
pressing  his  hands  upon  her  head. 

'Hush,  hush,  my  child  1  Just 
tell  me  the  truth,  let  me  help  you. 
Surely,  if  you  still  loye  Herbert,  it 
can  all  be  made  right  again.' 

'Never,  never,  never,  as  long  as 
any  of  us  live,'  she  sobbed. 

He  had  been  thinking  of  Herbert, 
feeling  for  Herbert  in  all  that  had 
yet  passed,  but  now  the  agony  of 
her  distress  was  so  unmistakeable 
that  he  b^gan  to  think  and  feel  for 
her. 

'What  can  I  do  for  you,  child  ? 
How  can  I  help  you?' 

'  Send  me  away ;  take  me  away ; 
do  something  with  me  that  will 
save  me  from  seeing  him  day  after 
day.' 

He  meditated.  'I  have  been 
thinking  of  sending  Alice  and  Flo- 
rence to  stay  with  my  sister  for  a  few 


weeks  before  the  winter  is  quite 
upon  us.    Will  you  ^o  with  them?* 

'If  youpleaseL  ar,if  she  will  have 
me.  But  Amy?  what  will  beoome 
of  my  pet  Amy  ?' 

'She  is  my  pet,  too,  Edith.' 

'  But  I  don  t  think  nurse  is  kind 
enough  to  her,  Mr.  Oldenshaw. 
Can't  Amy  oome  too?  She  shan't 
be  any  trouble  to  any  one.  I  will 
have  her  always  with  me.' 

'  I  cannot  spare  her,  and  my  sis- 
ter's place  is  too  exposed  and  cold 
for  the  child.  I  will  do  the  best  I 
can  for  her.  If  after  a  few  we^s 
things  remain  as  tiiey  are  now ' 

'But  they  won't!' 

'Indeed  I  I  thought  just  now * 

'You  misunderstand  me.  Tou 
will  see.  I  shall  be  able  to  come 
back— to  Lily-^  the  oottag^—to 
you;  to  my  pet  here ' 

'But  not  to  Herbert?' 

*  You  will  see— you  will  see.' 

'You  are  an  inexplicable  girl! 
You  seem  to  love  mysteries,  which 
I  hate.' 

'  You  can't  hate  them  as  I  do,  not 
half  as  bitterly  as  I  do.' 

'  Now  go  to  the  children,  and  tiy 
and  let  the  sea-wind  cool  those  poor 
cheeks  of  yours.' 

'And  will  you  please  try  and 
think  kindly  of  me,  will  you?'  she 
repeated  coaxingly.  'You  break 
my  heart  when  you  are  so  stem.' 
She  put  out  both  her  hands. 
'Though  I  am  never  to  be  your 
daughter,  won't  you  be  my  kind 
master  still  ?  I  Imow  I  am  not  in 
anything  good,  but  in  this  one  thing 
I  am  t^ing  to  be  good ;  and  it  is 
so  hard,'  she  began  to  sob  again : 
'just  when  I  so  need  help,  and 
when  I  deserve  help  more  than 
ever  before,  not  to  Imve  any  love 
from  any  one,  nor  aiur  sympathy,  I 
who  have  had  so  much ' 

First  he  grasped  her  hands,  then 
he  took  her  in  his  arms— the  fatherly 
arms  into  which  his  children  had 
often  flown  first,  even  in  their  sweet 
mother's  lifetime. 

'  You  are  a  poor  little  misguided, 
mistaken  thing  I'  he  said,  tcmderly. 
'  But  I  do  believe  you  are  trying  to 
do  right,  and  I  can  only  trust  that 
time  will  show  and  cure  your  error. 
Now  be  off,  my  child!' 


Orass  Purposes. 


161 


CHAPTEB  IIL 

'All  the  world  is  going  wrong,  I 
think/  wrote  Miss  Gaysworth  to 
Edith,  'and  I  am  going  to  write 
you  the  exact  truth  about  things, 
iEklith  dear,  for  you  have  left  me  so 
in  the  dark  that  I  have  no  means  of 
knowing  how  much  it  is  best  to  tell 
you— 4iow  much  best  to  keep  from 
you. 

'Did  you  go  away  on  purpose 
that  Mr.  Herbert  Oldenshaw,  while 
Buffering  from  your  harshness, 
should  be  consoled  by  Gertrude's 
gentleness?  Did  you  go  away  on 
purpose  that  Mr.  Herbert  Olden^w 
should  fisbU  in  love  with  Gertrude? 
Did  you  go  away  on  purpose  that 
Gertrude  should  be  free  to  lay  her- 
self out  to  please  and  to  win  Mr. 
Herbert  Oldenshaw,  and  that  he 
should  be  free  to  be  pleased  and 
won? 

'  I  shall  soon  haye  a  badJlIness, 
Edith.  I  lie  awake  at  night  asking 
myself  these  questions,  and  get  no 
sleep  for  worrying  over  these  things. 
I  am  sometimeB  so  angry  with  yon, 
sometimes  so  angiy  with  Gertrude, 
sometimes  so  angry  with  Herbert, 
sometimes  so  angiy  with  aU  of  you, 
sometimes  with  some  of  you,  that 
my  heart  is  always  beating  faster 
than  it  should.  What  do  you  mean? 
What  do  they  mean?  What  does 
it  all,  or  any  of  it,  mean? 

'  Tou  have  been  gone  three  weeks, 
just  three  weeks  to-day.  As  I  look 
over  the  lawn  there,  pacing  the  walk 
at  the  foot  of  it,  where  not  six  weeks 
ago  you  used  to  skip  up  and  down 
beside  him,  or  try  to  walk  gravely, 
keeping  his  step — ^there  he  walks 
now,  and  Gertrude  beside  him — a 
handsome  man  and  a  beautiful  wo- 
man, whom  any  one  would  take  for 
iovers,  if  not  for  husband  and  wife, 
already.  And  the  man  is  your 
lover  and  the  woman  is  Gertrude, 
-and  I  rub  my  eyes  and  try  to  find 
out  it  is  a  dream.  I  look  up  again : 
here,  close  to  the  window,  is  old 
Wilson,  brush,  brash,  brash,  trying 
^'to  keep  under  tiiem  littering 
leaves"  (as  he  calls  the  autumn 
jewels  and  gold  that&ll  so  freely), 
and  there,  a  few  yards  further  off, 
just  out  of  his  hearing,  are  that 
handsome  pair. 

TOL.  XVI. — ^NO.  xcu. 


'  Tou  say  you  are  not  surprised — 
that  it  is  all  going  as  you  expected — 
that  you  only  wish  I  would  spare 
you  details;  but  I  won't;  for  either 
you  are  wickedly  rash,  or  you  are 
wickedly  wronged.  I  cannot  get  it 
out  of  my  head  that  Gertrude  is  a 
married  toomanl  There!  I  have 
written  it!  Shall  it  go?  It  is  one 
of  the  fimcies  that  get  into  a  sick 
head,  and  don't  get  out  again,  I  dare 
say.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that 
those  words  should  not  be  written, 
and  there  they  stand,  staring  at  me, 
underlined  and  alL 

'  When  you  first  went  away,  Ger- 
trude seemed  very  shy  of  Herbert, 
and  I  quite  thought  that  he  seemed 
as  if  he  struggled  against  some  dis- 
like of  her,  or  anger  against  her. 
I  am  quite  sure  she  was  afraid  of 
him.  However,  I  soon  began  to  see 
that  though  afraid  of  him  she  was 
very  anxious  to  please  him  too,  the 
false  puss!  Tet  I  can't  call  her 
names  either,  she  seems  such  a 
sweet,  gentle  creature,  and,  of  late, 
has  had  such  a  meek,  half-heart- 
broken sort  of  a  way  with  her.  Per- 
haps she  can't  help  trying  to  please 
everybody;  I  am  sure  she  tries  hard 
to  please  me ;  and  when  Mr.  Olden- 
shaw, your  master,  comes  here  she 
is  in  such  a  tremble  and  flutter; 
she  studies  his  looks  and  his  words, 
and  says  to  me  afterwards,  "  Did  he 
mean  anything  particular  when  he 
said  that?  Was  he  offended  with 
me  for  saying  this  ?"  I  never  knew 
any  girl  so  changed  as  Gertrude. 
I  used  to  think  her  nroud,  and  now 
she  puts  herself  unoer  everybody's 
feet,  as  it  were.' 

A  later  letter  said : — 

*  The  people  are  beginning  to  talk, 
Edith. 

'  Old  Mrs.  Fowler,  the  other  day, 
simpering  and  nodding  significantly, 
the  old  idiot,  began — 

'  "  So  Mr.  Herbert  is  likely  soon  to 
console  himself.  Well,  she  is  a 
lovely  creature :  though  /don't  hold 
her  any  way  near  our  Edith,  I  hear 
it  said  sheUl  make  a  fitter-looking 
Mrs.  Oldenshaw  of  Firlands!" 

'  I  suppose  yon  knew  that  Herbert 
knew  Gertrude  before  he  met  her 
here.  1  believe  they  have  some  se- 
cret between  them.  Sometimes  I 
am  absolutely  certain  it  is  not  love 


162 


Ora8»Pwpo9m. 


—thai  lia  knrw  only  you— baiaome- 
timeB  I  bogin  to  doubt;  then  my 
hewi  tnniB  xoond  and  the  world 
with  it. 

'Mr.  Oldeufihaw,  your  master. 
apeaks  tenderly  of  yon ;  asks  after 
yon  Y6ry  oompaanaoately.  I  see 
thai  he  dislikes  this  intimacy,  it  is 
no  lees,  between  his  brother  and 
Gertmda  There  appears  to  be  a 
eoolneoi  between  the  brothers,  and 
yoor  master  calls  yon  "that  poor 
ehild."  He  is  looking  sadder  than 
erer,  and  he  has  Amy  always  with 
him.' 

A  later  letter  BtiU  said— 

*  I  haTB  been  Tery  mnch  agitated, 
Edith ;  I  can  hardly  hold  my  pen. 
Mr.  Oldenshaw  and  Mr.  Herbert  Old- 
enshaw  met  in  my  sitting-roam 
this  eTsning.  Gertmde  was.  out  I 
was  in  the  little  back  room,  doing 
Bome  mending  for  the  lanndress.  I 
eonld  not  help  hearing  what  passed. 
I  did  not  suppose  Mr.  Oldenshaw 
coutd  speak  so  narshly  as  he  spoke 
to  Walter,  reproTiDg  him  for  his  con- 
stant seeking  of  Qertrude's  socie^. 
I  could  not  catch  all  that  pasBed, 
but  your  name  was  used  by  both  of 
fhem.  Herbert,  my  &Tourite  Her- 
bert»  bore  a  great  deal  before  he  an- 
awored  in  any  but  the  gentlest  way. 

' "  If  Jealousy  had  anything  to  do 
with  Edith's  conduct,  you  do  your 
best  to  show  that  that  jealousy  was 
not  groundless,"  Mr.  Oldenshaw  said. 
Then  Walter  answerod,  "I  will  tell 
you,  James,  since  yon  drive  me  to 
it,  there  has  crossed  my  mind  a 
Tery  different  solution  of  that  mys- 
tery. I  do  not  think  Edith  capable 
of  jealousy,  and  she  had  no  ground 
for  it  It  has  crossed  my  mind  to 
suspect  that  she  &ncied,  or  feared, 
that  she  loves  you  better  than  she 
loves  me.  I  cannot  blame  her,"  he 
added;  ''you  are  so  much  more 
worthy.  If  this  is  so,  it  is  a  matter 
for  life-lonff  regret,  not  for  blame." 

'I  heard  no  more,  Edith,  for  I 
hastened  to  limp  into  the  next  room. 
I  was  afraid  of  what  might  follow ; 
but  I  saw  your  master  go  down  the 
road  a  few  moments  afterwards, 
Amy  dinging  round  his  neck,  and 
there  was  such  a  look  on  his  face ! 
What  kind  of  a  look  I  cannot  tell 
yoo.  He  was  stooping  more  than 
usual,  and  looked  a  bent  old  man; 


the  child  was  stroking  his  cheek, 
bat  ho  didn't  seem  conscious  of  it. 
Amy  is  looking  very,  wry  frail  just 
now.  Edith,  think  in  time,  what 
are  you  doing  by  this  mystery  of 
yours?  What  miseiy  are  you  not 
spreading?  What  is  thers  that 
people  may  not  be  driven  to  think- 
ing and  suspecting  when  yon  be- 
have so  in«q>Ucably? 

'  Ton  might  just  as  well  love  a 
corpse  in  a  grave  as  love  your  mas- 
ter in  that  way.  Don't  you  feel, 
when  he  is  kindest  and  tenderest, 
that  the  best  of  him,  the  core  of  him, 
is  fer  away?  Fooliahold  thingthat 
I  ami  I  can't  write  this  without 
blushing,  but  when  we  first  came 
here,  three  yean  ago  now,  seeing 
him  so  intensely  sadf,  I  was  always 
thinking  about  him ;  before  I  knew 
it  I  grew  to  lorn  him;  the  longing 
to  be  of  BOBoe  use  to  him,  some  com- 
fort, became  a  strong  torment.  I 
never  vas  presumptuous  enough  to 
think  I  oould  All  the  place  she  had 
filled;  I  knew  it  was  not  empty, 
but  I  had  mua  fond  dreams;  tney 
all  died  when  I  came  to  know  him 
and  the  manner  of  his  sorrow  better. 
He  loves  all  women  for  the  sake  of 
one,  but  never  again  will  love  one.' 

A  later  letter  still— 

'  Edith,  what  shall  I  say  to  you? 
How  can  I  tell  it  you?  My  only 
consolation  is  I  b^gin  to  thiiJE  you 
knew  it.  Y<m  broke  off  the  engage- 
ment that  he  might  not  have  to  do 
it— to  spare  him  oat  to  spare  your 
pride!  And  how  much  you  have 
been  bearing  of  blame  from  every- 
body, from  me  even,  who  ought  to 
have  known  you  better.  Come 
home  to  me  soon,  my  child,  my 
poor,  ill-uaed  child,  and  see  if  I  do 
not  love  you  and  pet  you,  my  poor, 
poor  wounded  buidiel  Why  didn't 
you  trust  me?  why  didn't  you  trust 
me? 

'  But  you  are  frowning  at  me  im- 
patiently, and  beating  the  ground 
with  your  foot,  telling  me  to  speak 
at  once.    I  will 

'Yesterday  Qertrude  was  taken 
ni;  she  suddenly  fainted;  she  hasn't 
been  sensible  since.  She  was  in  the 
room  above;  I  heard  her  fell,  and 
ran  to  her  as  fest  as  my  lameness 
would  let  ma  I  found  an  open 
letter  lying  on  the  floor  beside  her. 


Oro88  Purposes, 


168 


Oniflida  it  ma  addranedd  to  "Miss 
Brown/'  I  had  seen  it  on  the  table 
at  breakfasVtinie^  and  watobed  how 
BtartliB^y  she  flushed  and  then 
grew  lead-white  as  she  took  it  up 
and  pat  it  in  her  pocket,  to  be  read 
when  ahe  was  alone.  As  it  lay  open 
on  the  ground  beside  her  I  oould 
not  help  seeing  the  beginning  and 
ending.  It  began  "My  dearest  wife,** 
and  was  signed  (it  only  contained  a 
few  Unm)  "  H.  Oldemiiaw." 

*I  have  not  been  able  to  speak  to 
her  yet,  she  is  still  too  01,  as  I  told 
yon,  not  sensible.  Mr.  Herbert  01- 
deusbaw  is  away.  I  have  seen  and 
spoken  to  your  master.  He  only 
says  "This  is  too  monstrous!"  re- 
peating those  words  again  and  again. 
And  whenlthink  of  Herbert^  of  his 
frank,  good  fiaoe^  his  fearless  eyes,  / 
say,  "  This  is  too  monstrous  \"  The 
world  is  whirling  round  so  fast,  it 
spins  me  out  of  breath  and  out  of 
sense.  I  try  not  to  think  about 
anything. 

'  What  can  it  mean?  Write  and 
tell  us:  yon  know. 

'P.S.  Evening. 

'  Gertrude  still  lies  helpless,  only 
partially  sensible.  The  doctor  shakes 
his  head,  and  talks  of  pressure  on 
the  brain.  (He  has  also  asked  the 
strangest  questions.  Ton  remem- 
ber I  said  I  oould  not  get  it  out 
of  my  head  that  she  was  a  married 
woman.)  I  haye  got  Mrs.  Wilson 
to  come  and  help  us  nurse.  I  am 
not  very  well  myself:  I  think  I  hurt 
my  lame  hip  when  I  ran  upstairs 
on  hearing  her  fall.  It  has  been 
painful  ever  since.' 


(3HAPTEB  IV. 

Edith  came  back  to  Ivy  Cottage, 
to  nurse  her  cousin  and  take  care 
of  her  sister.  To  do  so  she  got  up 
from  a  sick  bed,  where  an  attack  of 
nervous  fever  had  for  some  days  kept 
her.  She  was  a  good  deal  changed : 
her  cheeks  had  lost  their  roundness 
and  their  damask-rose-sort  of  rich 
soft  bloom,  and  her  eyes  were  over- 
large  and  bright 

Mr.  Herbert  Oldenshaw  was  still 
away ;  he  waa  neither  at  the  Sea- 
wall House,  nor  at  his  own  place, 
Virlanda.  Where  he  was  114^  people 


knew,  but  where  he  was  no  one 
seemed  to  know.  His  mother,  to 
whom  lily  had  written  to  tell  her 
of  the  illness  of  her  governess,  Ger- 
trude Brown,  in  answering  that 
letter  asked  for  news  of  her  second 
son  Herbert,  saying  she  had  not  seen 
him  for  many  months,  and  that  a 
story  about  him,  as  painful  as  ab^ 
surd,  had  reached  her.  She  also 
seenouBd  more  curious  as  to  the  cause 
than  anxious  about  the  nature  or  the 
result  of  Gertrude's  illness. 

November  was  sad  and  gloomy, 
such  a  month  as  November  has  the 
character  of  bein^  in  most  places, 
and  very  seldom  IS  in  that  spot  All 
through  it  Gertrude  lay  ill  and 
Edith  nursed  her.  It  was  a  difficult 
malady  to  deal  with  and  cure,  being 
more  of  the  mind  than  the  body. 
Mr.  Oldenshaw^s  children  bad  to  do 
without  their  governess ;  their  father 
songht  with  pathetic  patience  to  be 
motiher  and  father  to  them:  tried, 
for  their  sakes,  to  be  cheerful,  and 
encouraged  their  merry  games. 
When  the  gloomy  afternoons  and 
stormy  evenings  gathered  them 
about  him  in  l£e  great  rooms,  how 
often  the  £Buiing  twilight  and  the 
uncertain  firelight  showed  him  their 
mother  among  them  still,  her  finger 
raised  in  gentle  repoof,  while  her 
eyes  glistened  with  sympathising 
glee.  He  saw  her  and  he  beard  her 
say, '  Not  so  much  noise,  little  ones ; 
not  auite  so  much  noise.' 

Edith  and  Mr.  Oldenshaw  had 
exchanged  positions  with  regard  to 
Herbert  Mr.  Oldenshaw  sighed  over 
him  or  spoke  of  him  with  stem 
wonder,  while  Edith  had  a  sort  of 
bright  and  hardy  confidence  in  him 
now. 

'  It  is  too  monstrous  P  she  too  had 
said,  and  she  felt  it  sa  What  she  had 
to  believe,  if  she  had  to  believe  any- 
thing against  him,  surpassed  belief. 
She  had  for  a  while  been  able  to  believe 
that  Herbert  after  engaging  himself 
to  her — ^which  he  had  done,  she 
said  sometimes,  out  of  pity  for  her 
poverty  and  forlomneas—had  formed 
an  attachment  to  her  boautirul 
cousin  Gertrude,  against  his  will, 
had  been  betrayed  into  a  declaration 
of  his  passion  fot  her;  but  that  he 
had  secretly  married  her  cousin 
while  still  eiigaged  to  hecMlf— had 


164 


Cro9$  Pwrpaes. 


allowed  Gertrude  to  occupy  au 
equivooal  and  painful  position,  and 
Edith  to  bear  all  the  blame  that  at- 
taches to  a  woman  who  oauseleBsly 
breaks  off  an  engagement— this  was 
too  monstrous  for  belief. 

The  first  supposition  even  had  for 
a  long  time  seemed  too  monstrous — 
had  been  felt  to  be  too  monstrous 
when  those  fearless  honest  eyes 
shone  on  her,— had  for  a  long  tune 
been  pushed  aside,  and  then,  when 
it  wouldn't  any  longer  be  pushed 
aside,  had  been  combated ;  but  the 
different  bits  of  eyidence  had  accu- 
mulated to  an  OTerwhelming  whole. 
When  she  had  posted  her  letter  to 
Gertrude,  she  had  believed  beyond 
all  doubt  that  an  attachment  sub- 
sisted between  her  and  Herbert, 
which  was  the  cause  of  unhappiness 
to  tiiem  both,  because  they  both 
struggled  against  it  for  her  sake. 

A  kind  fiiend  who  had  yisited 
near  Mrs.  Oldenshaw's  had  told 
Edith  of  how  the  beautiful  goyer- 
neas  was  admired  in  the  neighbour- 
hood and  courted  by  aU  the  gentle- 
men of  the  fisimily.  Another  had 
told  her  that  her  cousin  had  been 
seen  walking  in  lonely  parts  of  the 
grounds,  and  apparently  engaged  in 
most  intimately-confidential  conver- 
sation with  her  Mr.  Oldenshaw. 
Another  had  reported  how  en- 
tranced Mr.  Oldenshaw  had  seemed 
by  the  singingoftiie lovely  govemeas ; 
how  she  had  blushed  at  his  praises, 
and  how,  on  diflforent  occasions,  she 
had  shown  signs  of  there  being  some 
r.eoret  understanding  between  them. 
AU  this,  and  much  more,  had  gone 
for  nothing  with  Edith  till  there 
had  come  mto  Edith's  own  hands, 
in  Gertrude's  own  writing,  by  one  of 
those  accidents—the  wrong  letter 
placed  in  the  envelope— that  happen 
sometimes  even  to  very  cautious 
and  business-like  people,  a  letter  of 
Gertrude's,  to  'my  own  and  only 
love,'  in  which  Gertrude  spoke  of 
the  miserable  struggle  of  which  she 
was  the  victim,  of  her  health  giving 
way  beneath  the  long  and  constant 
concealment  she  was  obliged  to 
practise,  of  her  diead  of  'your 
mother,  who  is  so  proud,  and  who 
has  yet  been  so  kind,  very  kind, 
toma  It  was  hard  enough  to  Mrs. 
Oldenshaw^  you  know,  to  have  to 


accept  Edith  as  a  daughter-in-law ; 
now  Edith's  fiunily  is  good  on  both 
sides,  and  you  know  who  my  poor 
&ther  was.  Mrs.  Oldeni^w  huL  to 
struggle  bard  against  her  prejudices 
before  she  would  have  me  as  govec^ 
ness.  What  will  your  moth^  not 
feel  in  having  to  accept  me  as  your 
wifey 

Edith  had  read  so  fiu:  in  this  letter 
with  a  throbbing  heart  and  brain,  a 
mist  before  her  eyes  that  gathered 
over  her  life.  She  had  not  calmly 
sat  in  judgment  upon  it  and  weighed 
its  meaning;  she  had  not  even 
finished  it;  and  had  she  done  so, 
she  might  have  suspected  that '  Mrs. 
Oldenwaw'  and  'your  mother' 
were  not  used  as  synonymous 
terms;  also  she  might  have  sus- 
pected that  this  letter  was  not  a 
girl's  to  her  lover,  but  a  wife's  to  her 
husband.  Edith,  in  returning  this 
letter,  had  owned  in  few  woras  to 
having  partly  read  it;  and  Ger- 
trude when  writing  next,  which  abe 
did  immediately,  had  said— veiy 
strangely  as  Edith  thought— how 
great  a  comfort  it  was  to  her  to 
know  that  some  one  whom  she  could 
so  absolutely  trust  as  she  could  her 
dear  Edith  knew  something  of  her 
secret  now.  '  Only  something  of  it, 
Edith;  of  the  rest,  of  whatliancy 
from  your  letter  you  do  not  yet 
know,  I  dare  not  write,  but  should 
like  to  speak.' 

To  this  letter  Qdl  the  correspond- 
ence had  taken  place  in  Mr.  Herbert 
Oldenshaw's  brief  absence)  Edith 
had  answered  by  her  invitation  to 
her  cousin  to  spend  her  month  of 
holiday  at  Ivy  (>>ttage. 

'  Her  secret  marriage  was  what 
she  said  I  did  not  suspect,  and  what 
she  dared  not  write  o('  concluded 
Edith,  now  looking  over,  in  her  own 
room,  during  her  brief  resting-time, 
those  old  enigmas,  Gertrude's  let- 
ters. 'To  whom  am  she  be  mar- 
ried? Not  to  my  Herbert  What 
other  H.  Oldenshaw  is  there  in  the 
funily  ?    I  can  only  think  of  Fred.' 

'  Do  you  dare  call  him  that  now 
(your  Walter),  after  your  thoughts 
have  so  wronged  him,  you  presum- 
ing girl  ?  she  asked  herself  '  Tes,' 
she  answered;  'he  is  mine, and  only 
minel' 

The  very  next  day  Mr.  Oldenshaw, 


CroM  Pwrposei, 


165 


Edith's  master,  came  to  the  cottage 
and  asked  for  Edith. 

'  Edith,  my  child,  I  have  had  a 
letter  from  Herbert  How  is  that 
poor  girl  upstairs  to-day?' 

His  fingers  were  trembling  as  he 
sought  for  Herbert's  letter  from 
among  others  in  his  x)ocket-book. 

'  A  little  better:  she  has  had  a 
better  night' 

'  And  Lily,  your  sister  ?' 

'.  Not  60  weU.  I  am  much  afraid ' 
(the  great  tears  gathered^  '  she  will 
neyer  be  so  well  again ;  she  is  much 
more  lame,  and  the  pain  is  con- 
stant' 

'And  yon?' 

'  Jou  are  making  me  ill !'  she  said, 
petulantly.  '  Give  me  the  letter- 
that  IB,  if  I  may  read  it/— added 
with  new  humility. 

'  You  may :  but  I  am  afraid  it 
will  hurt  you  rather ' 

'80  much  the  better;  I  deserve  to 
be  hurt' 

'  Sit  down.' 

'Certainly  I  shall,  for  I  can't 
stand.' 

She  laughedi  but  could  not  see 
Mr.  OldeiuBhaw,  or  the  letter,  or 
anything,  for  some  minutes. 

<  Whert  is  it  dated  from?'  she 
asked,  bynrnd-by,  lifting  up  her 
strained  eyes.  '  Where  is  this  place 
with  a  queer  name?' 

'In  Canada.' 

'  Oh,  how  for  off  he  is— how  for 
off  he  is  1'  cried  Edith,  with  a  plain- 
tiTO  Toice.  'And  I  want  him  so,  to 
tell  him  how  sorry  I  ami  to  ask  him 
to  forgiye  me  1' 

'  You  know  it  all  he/ore  you  read 
the  letter,  then?' 

'I  don't  know  anything,  except 
that  my  Herbert  hasn't  done  any- 
thing wrong.  Now,  do  be  quiet, 
please.' 

She  turned  away  her  lace  then 
and  read  his  letter.  She  read  it  to 
the  end,  and  then  she  kissed  it,  and 
clasped  it,  and  cried  over  it  hysteric- 
ally (being  weak  from  watching). 

'  Now  isn't  that  like  Herbert  ?'  she 
said  to  Mr.  Oldenshaw. 

'  Just  like  him,  the  noble  fellow  I 
I'm  going  to  write  to  him,  Edith ; 
will  you  put  in  a  note  ?' 

'  What  was  it  you  thought  would 
pain  me?'  she  asked,  instead  of  an- 
swering. 


'  What  he  says  about  yon— as  if 
he  supposed  you  cared  nothing  for 
>iiTn  now.' 

'  I  hardly  noticed  that  It  will  be 
so  easy  to  correct  that  little  mis- 
take.' 

'  Will  you  write  to  him  ?' 

'  I  think  not  I  hardly  feel  as  if 
I  had  any  right  to,  I  have  used  him 
so  badly.  A  note  can't  say  anything 
that  should  be  said— not  one  of  my 
notes.' 

'  If  you  do  not  write,  or  send  a 
message,  I  shall  make  a  message.' 

'  You  must  do  as  you  please 
about  that' 

She  kissed  his  hand,  hugged  Amy, 
and  was  obliged  to  leave  hmL  She 
went  upstairs  to  the  sick  room. 
When  she  entered  it,  Gertrude 
looked  at  her  and  said  (Gertrude 
had  hardly  yet  looked  reoognizingly 
at  anything)— 

'  The  letter— the  letter  I  got  from 
my  husband  the  day  I  was  taken  ill 
—where  is  it,  Edith?' 

'  Lily  knows ;  I  will  ask  Lily.' 

She  knew  now  who  this  husband 
was.  Her  Herbert's  cousin.  But  why 
'H.,'  when  she  only  knew  him  as 
'Fred?' 

She  got  the  letter  from  lily,  and 
brought  it  to  Gertrude. 

'  Bead  it  to  me,  darling,'  said  the 
sick  girl,  languidly. 

Edith  tried,  but  again  a  mist  came 
over  her  eyes.  She  drank  a  glass  of 
water  and  tried  again,  this  time 
succeeding. 

It  was  a  passionate,  remorseful, 
heartbroken  letter  of  farewell. 
Gertrude's  foulty  husband,a  weakly- 
impetuous,  and  yet  foscinatangly- 
lovable  young  man,  overwhelmed 
witJi  debt  and  all  kind  of  difficulty, 
and  knowing  that  soon  it  would  be 
absolutely  needful  that  he  should 
own  his  wife,  had  be^d  tempted  to 
commit  forgery.  His  mother — 
Herbert  Oldenshaw's  mother's  sister 
(the  two  sisters  had  nuirried  two 
brothers),  and  a  still  prouder 
woman  than  the  other  Mrs.  Olden- 
shaw—on  discovering  his  secret 
marriage  to  her  sister's  governess, 
had  refdsed  him  any  help  or  counte- 
nance—had cast  him  off  in  this  way, 
driving  him  to  desperation.  He 
was  but  a  bimgler  at  crime ;  he  was 
almost  immediately  threatened  with 


1G6 


Cross  PtarpoieB, 


diBOOTerj.  He  was  obliged  to  fljr 
the  oouDtry  suddenly,  with  no  time 
left  to  see  his  wife.  This  was  the 
news  of  the  fiuewell  letter  which 
had  stricken  poor  Gtortrade  almost 
for  death.  His  consin  he  had  only 
half  confided  in,  or  he  woold  never 
have  needed  to  take  these  desperate 
steps.  And  his  cousin,  as  Herbert's 
letter  to  his  brother  had  told  Edith, 
after  straining  ereiy  nerve  to  oblite- 
rate all  traces  of  his  crime,  had 
started  in  pursuit  of  him,  to  bring 
him  home  in  safety  to  the  possibility 
of  leading  an  honoured  and  an 
honourable  life. 

Kdith  knowing  this,  having  read 
his  letter  to  Gertrude,  ooald  take 
her  hand  in  hen  and  speak  words 
of  comfort 

'Herbert  is  ||one  to  him.  Herbert 
has  been  working  for  him.  Herbert 
will  make  it  ail  right.  Herbert  will 
bring  him  home  to  you,  Qer,  darling ! 
there  will  be  no  more  heart- wearing 
conoeahnent  and  pain.  You  will 
begin  to  be  happy  then.  Herbert 
can  do  everything:  he  can  even 
make  peace  between  poor  Fred  and 
his  mother.  Why  does  Fred  sign 
himself  II.  Oldenshaw,  Ger  ?' 

'  His  name  is  Herbert  F^erick.' 

'If  only  my  Herbert  had  known 
everything  sooner,'  Edith  said  after 
a  loug  pause;  'and  if  only  I  had 
never  believed  anything  Herbert  did 
not  tell  me !' 

'  Your  Herbert  is  very  good/  said 
Gertrude,  faintly.  'I  should  have 
sunk  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for 
my  confidence  in  him.  He  was  awi^ 
— gone  to  look  for  Fred  in  town — 
when  this  came,  and  I  thought  he 
.  was  too  late.  I  thought,  perhaps, 
Fred  meant— to— to  kill  himself.' 

'  No,  no,  no !  He  will  come  back 
safe,  he  will  find  you  well;  his 
mother  will  forgive  him.  All  will 
be  well.' 

And  then  while  Gertrude  sank  to 
sleep  again,  Elith  sat  thinking,  with 
down-<iropping  tears  that  begged 
his  forgivijuess,  and  half-murmured 

£  ray  era  that  ptayed  blessings  on 
im — of  her  Herbert^if  only  she 
had  never  believed  an>  thing  that 
HerLert  had  not  told  her ! 


GHAPTEB  V. 

The  time  before  Herbert  and  the 
misguided  young  husband  could  be 
back  drttged  yery  slowly. 

Poor  Frederick  Oldenshaw  had 
been  always  the  black  sheep  of  the 
fomily,  not  often  among  them,  not 
often  spoken  of  by  them,  and  when 
he  was,  always  as '  Fred.'  Gtoirude 
grew  comparatively  strong  again, 
and  moved  about  the  house,  doing 
her  part  in  it  No  lonser  the 
drooping  love-sick  girl  Edith  had 
scorned,  for  she  had  thrown  off  the 
burden  of  that  long  concealment; 
but  she  could  not  bat  be  an  anxious 
and  sorrowful  woman,  more  easily 
shaken  by  fear  than  moved  to  hope. 

The  sea  had  never  before  h&ea  a 
terror  to  Edith,  but  it  was  this 
winter.    She  resumed  her  duties  as 

fovemesstothe  Oldenshaw  children; 
ut  as  she  sat  in  their  schoolroom, 
that  heaving,  seething  mass  which 
spread  before  the  windows,  was 
always  drawing  her  eyes,  and 
through  them  swallowing  up  her 
thoughts,  her  life  itself,  as  it  seemed 
to  her  sometimes. 

She  had  plenty  of  sad  things  to 
think  about;  Miss  Gaysworth  did 
not  rally,  and  the  physician  who  had 
been  summoned  nrom  town  by  Mr. 
Oldenshaw  to  give  an  opinion  of  her 
case  had  decided  that  the  spring  in 
all  probability,  as  &r  as  his  judgment 
went,  would  not  find  her  among 
them;  the  disease  that  caused  her 
lameness,  aggravated  by  late  over- 
exertion, was  rapidly  sapping  her 
strength,  he  said. 

Then  little  Amy,  the  pet  child, 
the  darling  so  dearly  bought,  was 
fading;  she  did  not  'do  lessons' 
now ;  she  was  always  on  Edith's  lap 
through  the  school  hours.  She  did 
not  want  to  play  now ;  she  was  in  her 
father's  arms,  carried  up  and  down 
in  the  wind  and  sunshine  out-doors 
in  mild  weather,  or  in  the  room  in- 
doors in  harsh  weather  in  play 
hours ;  the  little  fece  did  not  care 
to  raise  itself  from  Edith's  bijsom,  or 
from  Mr.  OldenshaVs  cheek.  She 
hadn't  any  pain,  she  always  said, 
only  she  was  tired.  '  Me  play  to- 
morrow, Edie;  tired  to-day,'  she  said, 
but  the  playing  morrow  didn't  come; 
she  faded. 


Oto$§  Fwr^po9e$. 


167 


'Ma  play  vhfin  Unole  Bertie 
oome  borne/  ma  another  plea. 
Warm  days  oame  in  March  and 
Tnurmer  still  in  April— days  of  bright 
air  and  oheering  san«  burodess  and 
windless;  but  Lily,  ihocigb  she 
lingered,  did  not  sally,  nor  did  Amy. 

Qertrade  nursed  Lily  with  the 
fdllest  devotion ;  she  bad  heard  how 
the  fresh  barm  bad  happened, 
throogh  the  talk  of  Jane,  the  ser- 
Tant  *  My  only  comfort  till  my  poor 
Frederiok  oomes  home  is  to  spend 
myself  for  her/  she  pleaded  to  £dith. 
'  She  was  always  food  of  me,  always 
very  |;ood  to  me.' 

Edith  stayed  later  and  longer  at 
the  Sea-wall  Honse,  as  the  days 
lengthened,  and  the  shadow  deep- 
oied,  and  tiie  little  faoe  brightened, 
as  with  light  zefleoted  from  heaven 
to  oome. 

'I  believe  yvm  think  my  heart  will 
break  when  it  comes/  said  Mr. 
Oldenshaw,  one  day,  looking  up 
from  the  diild*s  &oe,  and  meeting 
^  wistfal  longing  of  Edith's  eyes. 

Thoy  were  sitting  together  in  the 
sonset-sanshine  in  the  window,  Amy 
on  Edith's  lap,  the  other  children 

Saiying  in  the  room.  Hour  after 
or  that  day  the  little  one  bad  lain 
still  with  closed  eyes. 

'  I  was  longing  with  all  my  might 
to  be  able  to  do  anything  to  comfort 
you/  Edith  answered. 

'  Dear  child  1  but  I  am  comforted 
always.  And  as  to  this  little  one,  I 
am  glad  she  should  be  with  her 
mother.  She  won't  take  me  after 
ber»  weary  as  I  often  feel ;  I  have 
work  to  do/  glancing  at  the  other 
children.  'Those  boys  and  those 
girls  hold  me  here.  She  said, 
"  James,  try  and  live  for  their  sake." ' 

Mr.  Oldenshaw  bad  never  spoken 
so  much  as  this  of  the  dead  to  any 
one  before. 

Edith  could  not  see  for  tears  for 
many  minutes.  When  her  eyes  were 
clear  again  the  light  had  faded  off 
Amy's  fair  locks,  the  sun  had 
dipped  into  the  sea. 

The  child's  lids  stirred,  then 
closed;  the  other  children  played 
softly,  obedient  to  papa's  finger, 
which  said, '  Amy  is  asleep.'  Edith's 
eyes  were  on  tiie  ohild's  face,  so 
were  Mr.  Oldenahaw'a ;  piesenUyhe 
bent  closer. 


The  lids  were  half  raised :  the  olae 
eyes  seemed  to  look  at  him  dreamily. 

'  Did  Amy  want  papa?' 

The  father's  ficKse  was  put  dose  to 
the  child's;  then  it  looked  into 
Edith's;  she  ^led  and  thrilled  and 
clasped  the  little  form  closer;  she 
lifted  the  yielding  hand  and  held  it 
to  her  mouth. 

'Amy  is  very  cold/  she  said.  'Ill 
move  to  the  fire  now  the  sun's 
gone.' 

'  Shall  we  go  and  play  in  the  hall, 
papa,  as  Amy's  asleep?'  whispered 
one  of  the  boys,  coming  up  on  tip- 
toe. 

*Tes,  dearboy,  doP 

They  weni  Edith  knelt  on  the 
rug,  and  chafed  the  little  hands  and 
the  feet,  and  talked  softly  to  her  pet 

Presentiy  she  desisted  and  looked 
blankly  at  Mr.  0  denshaw.  He  took 
the  child  from  her  then,  and  she 
sank  down  weeping,  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

Mr.  Oldenshaw  left  the  room ;  he 
carried  the  chitd  through  Uie  playing 
children,  who  hushed  as  he  passed 
to  his  own  room,  to  lay  it  on  ms  bed. 

He  had  been  told  that  death  would 
come  like  this;  he  did  not  rebel 
against  it  He  locked  himself  in 
there— in  communion  with  Qod  and 
the  child's  mother. 

Edith  knelt  by  the  fireside,  weep- 
ing, weeping  as  if  her  tears  would 
never  stay;  and  the  children  played 
till  the  hall  grew  dark.  Then  tW 
came  round  her. 

'Amy  is  gone  to  her  mother, 
Mr.  Oldenshaw's  voice  said  from 
the  midst  of  them  as  they  clustered 
round  Edith.  '  It  is  sad  for  us 
who  are  left  to  miss  her,  but  it  must 
be  happy  for  her,  noce  it  is  Qod's 
will—the  will  of  that  Father  who 
loves  His  little  ones  more  than  any 
earthly  fiather  can  do.' 

Then  his  voice  failed  him  as  the 
awe-struck,  weeping  chihiren  cama 
round  him.  He  cweased  them — 
comforting  them,  speaking  of  Amy 
as  taken  home,  to  a  happier  home 
than  she  bad  known  ytit  -  speaking 
tenderly  of  death  as  a  dear  reet  and 
great  good — ^>et  not  allnwing  him- 
self to  speak  wearily  or  denpisingly 
of  life  to  these  young  things,  who 
probably  had  length  of  years  before 
them. 


i«e 


Orosi  Pufpoies, 


EdHh  put  the  little  girls  to  bed 
that  night,  and  sat  by  tl^m  till  they 
sobbed  themselTes  to  sleep.  Then 
Mr.  Oldenshaw  took  her  home. 

He  sat  hy  their  fireside  a  while, 
talking  gently  to  Lily,  who  was 
much  overoome  by  the  news,  not 
for  Amy's  sake.  Amy  had  gone 
home,  and  Lily  was  often,  in  her 
constant  wearing  pain,  fall  of  long- 
ing for  the  rest  of  snoh  a  going 
home— not  for  Amy's  sake,  bat  for 
Amy's  fBither's  sake,  whom  Lily 
loved,  as  snoh  a  natore  as  hers 
ooold  not  help  lovine  each  a  one  as 
his.  Lily's  thin  hana  had  been  laid 
on  his,  and  he  still  clasped  it  as  he 
sat  talking— of  Amy's  pretty  ways 
and  pretty  pathetic  sayings. 

'  It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  think 
that  she  has  not  soffered— that  her 
short  life  has  been  a  happy  life, 
poor  little  lamb!  If  I  loved  Edith 
for  nothing  else,  I  shonld  love  her 
for  her  love  to  my  Amy.' 

By-and-by  he  went  away,  and  lefb 
three  loving  women  sorrowing  for 
him— following  him  in  their  sor- 
xowfal  thonghts  to  the  gieat  Sea- 
wall Hoose,  to  the  side  of  the  lovely 
dead  child. 

'  Has  he  had  a  letter  ?'  asked 
Gertrade,  by-and-by,  '  from  his 
brother?' 

'No,  Ger.  Why?'  qnestioned 
Edith,  qoickly. 

*  I  have  heard  from  my  hosband 
—he  wishes  me  to  meet  him  on  his 
landing.  He  cannot  yet  make  np 
his  mind  to  come  here.' 

'When  does  he  come?  Does  he 
come  alone?' 

'  I  have  to  oalcalate  the  time.  It 
will  be  next  week,  I  think.  Strangely 
enough,  he  does  not  mention 
Herbert' 

'  My  master  will  hear  in  a  day  or 
two,  no  donbt,'  said  Edith. 

That  title,  given  in  jest,  loving 
jest,  long  ago,  had  come  to  be  so 
fitmiliar  now  tllltt  she  used  it  when 
in  most  serious  earnest. 

A  few  days  later  Gertrude  left 
them,  to  go  and  meet  her  husband. 
It  was  a  hard  parting  between  her 
and  Uly,  though  Gertrude  assured 
herself  she  should  see  Lily  again. 

Little  Amy  was  buried.  It  was 
pleasant  that  it  was  spring-time, 
and  the  fresh  churchyard  grans  full 


of  daisies.  No  letter  firom  Horbert 
had  come  to  the  Sea-wall  Hoose. 

The  day  after  Gertrade  went 
away,  the  day  her  hosband  was  ex- 
pected to  reach  England,  Edith 
left  lily  asleep  on  her  oooch  in  the 
afternoon,  and  went  out  It  was  a 
mild  spring  day,  with  a  soft, 
hovering,  dew-like,  yet  penetrating 
rain  £ftlling  incessantly.  Edith 
went  oat  of  the  garden  and  up  the 
road,  to  the  spot  where  she  had 
parted  from  Herbert,  havim  taken 
ENick  her  word  from  him.  Here  she 
perched  herself  upon  the  wall,  her 
Seet  resting  upon  a  felled  tree,  and 
sat  waiting. 

It  was  Herbert^s  costom  always  to 
walk  down  to  the  Sea-wall  House ; 
to  leave  any  vehicle  he  might  come 
in  at  the  upper  village,  tmd  walk 
down  the  road. 

Was  Edith  waiting  for  him  now? 
She  felt  as  if  she  was.  Why  should 
she  expect  him  now?  Because  she 
felt  him  coming.  She  had  come 
out  late  in  the  afternoon :  it  began 
to  grow  dim  and  dusk. 

'  I  must  go  home  soon,  for  Lily 
will  wake  and  want  her  tea.' 
Edith  had  jost  said  this  to  herself 
when— footsteps  did  not  sound  very 
distinctly  in  the  soft,  damp  road, 
but  that  was  his.  She  was  sitting 
back  from  the  road,  under  over- 
hanging branches.  All  her  dresif 
that  was  visible  was  a  grey  cloak, 
the  colour  of  the  walL  He  camo 
on,  and  did  not  see  her;  he  was 
about  to  pass  her. 

'Herbert!'  The  voice  was  low 
and  timid.    He  walked  on. 

'Herbert!'  He  paused,  but  did 
not  turn. 

'  Herbert !'    Desperately  now. 

He  turned,  and  saw  her. 

'  I  had  to  speak  three  times.' 

'I  heard  the  first  time,  but 
thought  that  it  was  a  voice  in  my 
heart,'  he  said. 

'  I  have  been  waiting  two  hours.' 

'  How  so?  Why  did  you  expect 
me?' 

'  A  voice  in  my  heart!'  she  said ; 
then,  'Oh,  Herbert!  can  you  care 
for  me  any  more  ?  Can  you  forgive 
me?'    Her  face  lifted  up. 

He  pushed  back  her  hat  and 
looked  into  her  eyes. 

'  I  don't  think  I  can  care  for  yon 


The  Archery  Lesson, 


169 


any  more.'  He  said  then,  '  I  care 
for  you  so  much,  so  entirely.' 

She  stepped  back  upon  the  tree 
that  had  been  her  footstool,  and 
then  from  that  eleTation  was  able 
to  throw  her  arms  ronnd  his  neck. 

'  My  Herbert— my  Herbert  Oh, 
yon  are  so  good  to  me  !* 

She  did  not  soon  get  free  again. 
There  were  only  the  birds  to  see 
them,  and  perhaps  a  sqnirrel  or 
two. 

Then,  when  she  did  get  free,  her 
hand  was  tucked  nnder  his  arm, 
held  there  with  an  energy  that 
seemed  to  mean  to  impress  it  there 
for  ever,  and  they  went  down  the 
road. 

'Lily  will  want  her  tea,'  said 
Edith. 

'  How  is  Lily?  I  was  afraid  to 
ask.  Tonrs  is  a  mourning  dress,  is 
it  not,  Edith?* 

'  I  meant  to  keep  it  covered  for 
fear  of  shocking  yon.  Yon  will  be 
80  grieved,  I  know,  dear  Walter.' 

'Is  it  little  Amy?' 


'Tes.   What  made  yon  gneas  it?' 

'  I  had  a  dream  about  her :  and  I 

never  thought  that  dear  child  would 

live.    Poor  James  1    Now,  how  is 

Lily?' 

'  I  want  you  to  tell  me  when  you 
see  her.    She  is  changed,  I  fear.' 
A  long  silenoa 
'  Gertrude  met  Frederick  ?' 
'Yes.     They  have  had  a  hard 
time  of  it    Now  I  hope  they  will 
be  happy.' 

'  Are  you  not  going  to  scold  me 
or  to  laugh  at  me  T 
'  Not  now,  my  child;  not  now.' 
She  was  silent  after  that 
He  went  with  Edith  to  the  cot- 
tage— waited  while  she  prepared 
Lily  to  see  him,  and  then  went  in. 
Lily  brightened  up  so  wonderfully 
that  Edith   thought    he   had   no 
chance  of  judging  of  her  state. 

He  did  not  stay  long  at  the  cot- 
tage then,  but  went  on  to  the  Sea- 
wall House. 

Lily  had  a  happy  summer,  and 
did  not  know  another  winter. 


THE  ABGHEBT  LESSON. 

OUT  in  the  meadow  spreading  green. 
Under  the  summer  sky. 
While  in  its  hazy  depths  the  lark 

Sang,  hidden  from  the  eye, — 
What  should  we  do  but  h'nger  lon^. 
My  cousins  three,  and  I  ? 

Fair  were  those  cousins  three  who  made 

My  happiness  that  day ; 
Bright-eyed,  and  rosy  red  of  Up 

And  ankle-neat  were  they; 
And  if  their  laughter  or  their  words 

Were  gayest,  who  might  say  ? 

As  easy  were  it  to  assign 

Distraction  absolute 
To  lightly  peroh'd  coquettish  hat 

Or  heart-enslaving  boot, — 
Fatal  to  one  who*d  teach  the  young 

Idea  how  to  shoot! 

That  was  my  too-delicious  task. 
The  Fates  would  have  it  so ; 

The  secret  of  the  flying  shaft 
The  Graces  sought  to  know, — 

Arrows  in  plenty  to  their  hands 
And  but  a  single  beau. 


170  A  Bun  to  ike  SomA  after  OreaJtmre-OmforU. 

Slow  was  the  lesson  whfle  I  B\m^ 
Oonflicting  thoughts  to  chase: 

'  Which  was  the  dnintier  of  the  thxae? 
Which  had  the  fairer  face? 

And  which  among  them  drew  the  b^w 
With  most  bewitching  graoe  ?* 

Betwixt  the  claims  of  lair  and  fiur 

'Tib  tortnre  to  decide. 
Doabt  not  in  Ida's  happj  Tale 

Distracted  Paris  tried 
Between  the  rival  goddesses 

The  apple  to  dinde. 

Yenns  was  lovely,  Jono  grand, 

Minerya  had  esprit ; 
Twas  croel  to  refuse  the  prize 

To  either  of  the  three. 
How  to  award  that  prisEe— my  heart — 

I  know  bewildered  me. 

It  was  a  day  when  loveliness 
To  all  aroand  us  clings ; 

Bright  was  the  shining  meadow-grass. 
The  insects'  jewelled  wings ; 

The  very  target  golden  glowed,^ 
A  planet  with  its  rings! 

And  happily  the  sunny  hours, 

Sacred  to  beauty,  fled' 
Hardly  more  swiftly  through  the  air 

The  feathered  arrows  sped ; 
Life's  brightest  blossoms  thus  are  bom, — 

Thus  soon  their  sweetness  shed. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  sport  was  done. 
The  merry  lesson  taught, 

I  deemed  the  triple  Graces  still 
With  equal  beauty  fraught: 

Yet  one— the  Yenus— held  my  heart. 
Yielded  in  secret  thought. 


W.S. 


I 


A  BUN  TO  THE  SOUTH  AFTER  CEEATURECOMFOBTS. 

T  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  may  care  to  know  how  to  traverse 

because  a  thiug  is  well  known  a  it  with  ease.    We  are  not  afraid  of 

description  of  it  will  be  devoid  of  the  reproach  of  epicurism,  oa  ao- 

interest.     Witness  the  amusement  count  of  noting  creature-comforts, 

we   derive   from  the  accounts  of  or  their  absence ;  we  bear  no  rela- 

their  travels  in  England  given  by  tionship  to  the  personages  in  novels 

foreigners.    Our  curiosity  is  excited  who  appear  to  live  without  either 

ifonly  to  see  how  a  new  pen  will  treat  eating  or  drinking,  and  are  rarely 

an  old  topic.    We  therefore  make  reported  to  sleep  in  a  bed.    The 

no  apology  for  relating  a  common-  first  of  creature -comforts  is  health, 

place  railway  journey  across  well-  And  indeed,  as  health,  pleasure,  and 

trodden  France.    Those  who  have  amusement  were  the  main  objects 

performed  it  in  their  way  will  see  of  the  trip,  it  would  be  incon^^istent 

now  we  perform  it  in  ours ;  those  and  ab.^urd  to  omit  all  mention  of 

to  whom  the  ground  is  still  fresh  their  attainment. 


A  Bnm  to  ihe  Soidh  nft&r  Or^aJtnre^Jmfark. 


ITl 


By  'fte  fikmth'  — an  indefinite 
expresdon  —  is  meant  neither  the 
fioathem  hemisphere,  nor  the 
equator,  nor  the  toopio  of  Oprioora, 
nor  the  antuotio  circle,  but  simply 
what  the  Freneh  caU  '  le  Midi/  that 
part  of  their  ooontry  which  borders 
the  Mediterranean  and  the  frontier 
of  Spain.  It  is  used  loosely,  exactly 
as  in  Scotland  '  going  sonth' means 
proceeding  to  any  pui  of  England ; 
and  there  is  at  least  as  mnch  dif- 
ference between  the  dimate,  the 
prodnctions,  and  the  people  of  the 
Midi  and  the  northem  regions  of 
the  continent,  as  there  is  between 
those  of  North  and  Sonth  Britain. 

The  blessed  railway  now  renders 
the  Midi  accessible  to  numbers  to 
whsm  it  was  formerly  absolutely 
closed.  The  busy  man,  who  could 
not  spare  the  time,  the  invalid,  who 
could  not  bear  the  long  weariness 
of  diligence-trayelling,  are  wafted 
thither  smootlily  and  speedily  by 
rail.  By  land,  we  can  almost  beat 
the  swallow;  it  is  the  sea  only 
which  claps  a  drag  on  the  swiftness 
of  our  migrations.  We,  therefore, 
for  the  information  of  our  friends, 
record  the  ways,  and  doings,  and 
times  of  railroad  trains,  especially 
as  in  several  respects  they  differ 
from  our  own.  It  may  save  them 
some  trouble  in  studying  and 
searching  Bradshaw,  'Le  Train,' 
or  '  L'Indicateur  des  Chemins  de 
Fer,'  to  be  told  how  we  went  on  our 
way  rejoicing.  If  th^  disapprove 
our  8ti^;es  and  our  halting-places, 
th^  can  fcame  a  time-table  of  their 
own  which  suits  them  better ;  but 
they  may  still  like  to  listen  to  our 
commentary  on  the  capabilities  of 
the  Bailway  Guides. 

We  mention  prices,  distances,  and 
quantities,  in  the  moneys,  weights, 
and  measures  of  the  country,  as  the 
simplest  way  of  conveying  practical 
information.  Of  what  use  is  it  to 
reduce  to  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  payments  that  have  to  be 
made  in  tencs  and  centimes?  or  to 
speak  of  mOes  on  roads  that  are 
measured  by  kilomdtres?  A  very 
little  experience  and  practice  en- 
ables the  mind  to  appreciate  and 
form  a  correct  idea  of  the  values  of 
the  French  decimal,  or  metrical, 
sybtem  of  moneys,   weights,  and 


measures.  Briefly,  let  the  intend- 
ing traveller  remember  that,  ap- 
proximately, twenty-five  firanos  are 
equal  to  a  pound  [^gold  twenty-five 
franc  pieces  are  bemg  corned,  which 
will  thus  be  equivalent  to  our  son^ 
reign];  that  twenty  francs  make  a 
napul^n;  that  a  franc,  tenpenoe, 
is  twenty  soub,  or  halfpence.  The 
centimes  puzzle  strangers  moat; 
yet  they  are  exceedingly  simple, 
and  must  be  understood,  because 
all  legal  small  payments  are  made 
in  tbem,  not  in  sous,  alliiough  sous 
are  still  as  currant  in  popular  lan- 
guage as  they  are  in  the  shape  of 
coin.  All  articles  for  sale  in  shops 
and  stalls  must  be  ticketed  in  francs 
and  centimes,  not  in  sous.  At 
railways,  you  are  told  your  ticket 
costs  so  many  fkancs  and  so  many 
centimes,  not  sous.  A  franc,  then, 
is  one  hundred  centimes;  half  a 
fraoo  is  fifty  centimes;  fifteen  sous, 
or  three-quarters  of  a  franc,  is  se- 
venty-five centimes;  and  when  you 
are  charged  five  centimes  for  any« 
thing,  you  pay  them  with  a  sou. 
The  comparison  of  centimes  with 
English  pence  is  of  the  easiest  One 
penny,  or  two  sous,  is  ten  centimes ; 
thirty  centimes  is  threepence ;  forty 
centimes,  fonrpence,  and  so  on; 
sixty-fiTo  centimes  is  sixpence  half- 
penny; ninety-fi^e  centimes,  nine- 
pence  halfpenny,  fto.  Ac. 

All  lengths  are  measured  by 
metres,  and  kilometres,  or  thousands 
of  metres.  The  mdtre  is  oonsider^ 
ably  more  than  a  yard,  making  an 
important  difference  in  buying  cloth, 
&o.  It  is  subdivided  into  one  hun- 
dred oentimdtres,  less  than  half  an 
inch  each,  and  further  (for  mioro- 
metrioal  purposes)  into  millimdtres 
about  our  line,  though  not  exactly. 
The  mdtre  n  the  standard  of  length. 
Note  that  all  divisions  of  standards 
in  this  ^stem  are  derived  from  the 
Latin;  all  multiples,  from  the 
Greek.  A  kilometre  is  considerably 
less  than  a  mile.  In  cold  weather, 
and  when  in  good  health,  by  step- 
ping oat  briskly,  I  can  walk  a  kilo- 
metre in  ten  minutes;  at  my  or- 
dinary pace  I  do  it  in  twelve  or 
thirteen.  A  kilometre  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  is  quite  leisurely  walk- 
ing, whereas  a  mile  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  is  very  good  walking.   Four 


172 


A  Bun  to  the  South  after  Oreaiiwte-'Comforte. 


kOorndtroB  make  a  leagae,  whiob  is 
an  easy  way  to  reduce  tihom  to  miles, 
a  leagne  being  equal  to  two  miles 
and  a  halt  Thus,  £rom  Paris  to 
ManeilleB  is  863  kilometres,  or  216 
leases,  minus  a  kilometre,  by  rail. 
Twioe  216  is  433,  half  316  is  108; 
add  the  double  and  the  half  toge- 
ther, and  you  get  540  miles  as  the 
railway  distance  from  Paris  to  Mar- 
seilles. Now  there  is  a  wonderful 
post  train  (No.  3)  which  leaves 
Paris  at  7*15  in  me  OTcning,  and 
reaches  Mareeilles  at  11*42  next 
morning,  allowing,  so  say  the  time- 
tables, half  an  hour  at  Lyons  for  a 
comfortable  supper  or  breakfieust, 
whichever  you  like  to  call  it,  at 
4-32  in  the  morning.  The  fiire  is 
96  fr.  65  c,  a  trifle  under  four 
l^unds.  Compare  this  with  the 
time  and  expense  it  used  to  cost  to 
make  the  same  trip  by  diligence, 
still  more  by  posting,  and  the  differ- 
ence in  the  raoilities  for  tiayelling 
at  the  beginning  and  towuds  the 
dose  of  the  present  century  will  be 
so  striking  as  to  be  weakened  by 
fdrther  comment.  It)  allows  what 
may  be  called  the  immediate  trans- 
port of  persons  short  of  time,  or  of 
invalids,  from  the  north  of  France 
to  the  Mediterranean  shore. 

An  objection  that  may  be  made 
to  this  train  by  persons  visiting 
France  for  the  first  time  is,  that, 
travelling  by  night,  they  do  not 
see  the  country;  but  as  it  leaves 
Lyons  at  5*2  in  the  morning,  they 
get  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  the 
portion  of  the  route  by  far  the  best 
worth  seeing,  under  the  eflldctB  of 
sunrise  and  early  mom,  which  in 
summer  are  indescribably  beauti- 
ful ;  and  they  look  down  upon  the 
vast  Etang  de  Berre,  and  make  the 
descent  to  the  sea,  amidst  the 
splendours  of  approaching  noon. 
In  any  case,  if  rapid  change  of  place 
be  the  object,  some  pivt  of  the 
distance  must  be  traversed  by  nighi 
There  is  an  express  train  (No.  i) 
which  leaves  Paris  at  the  conve- 
nient hour  of  eleven  in  the  morning ; 
but  it  leaves  Lyons  at  10*45  ftt 
night,  reaching  Marseilles  at  6*25 
next  morning,  and  whisking  the 
traveller  throagh  the  Rhone  valley  in 
the  dark,  although  he  will  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  a  peep  at  Burgundy. 


Whatever  train  you  take,  the 
clearing  of  enormous  distances  in 
this  way  is  open  to  the  common 
objection  applicable,  in  fact,  to  rail- 
way travelling  in  general,  that  you 
leave  much  unseen  along  the  way. 
On  the  present  line,  for  instance, 
Dijon  is  picturesque,  has  a  marked 
individuality,  and  is  full  of  histo- 
rical interest,  while  Lyons  is  really 
a  magnificent  city,  taking  rank  aa 
one  of  the  cities  of  the  world.  One 
is  the  hale  representative  of  the 
pa8t»  the  other  a  fine  example  of 
present  prosperity.    Both  have  the 


mg  in  the  comforts,  conveniences, 
and  luxuries  of  life,  attainable  by 
purses  of  moderate  dimensions. 
!but  there  are  things  which  it  is 
impossible  to  reconcile  and  combine ; 
you  cannot  be  in  two  places  at  once ; 
you  cannot  at  the  same  time  travel 
quickly  and  leisurely.  Going  ex- 
press, you  cannot  poke  and  pry  into 
tiie  same  amount  of  detail  as  if 
you  traversed  France,  as  we  have 
done  in  old  times,  with  the  same 
sturdy  pair  of  horses. 

To  complete  our  sketch  of  French 
measures:  the  litre  is  the  standard 
of  capadly  for  dry  things  as  well 
as  for  liquids ;  for  wheat  and  other 
gnin,  as  well  as  for  wine,  beer,  and 
milk.  In  &ct,  why  should  barley 
and  oats  need  a  different  measure 
to  ale  and  porter?  The  litre  is  less 
than  an  English  quart,  being  one 
pint,  and  seven-tenths,  and  a  frao- 
tion,  but  is  a  sufiicient  allowance  of 
wine  for  a  man  to  take  at  a  sitting, 
and  is  sensibly  more  than  an  or- 
dinary wine  bottle.  Drink,  however, 
is  sold  by  measures  having  other 
popular  names.  A  canette  is  a  mug 
or  pot  of  beer  containing  a  litre ;  a 
canon  is  a  small  glass  of  beer ;  a 
chojye  is  a  large  glass.  A  chopine  is 
about  a  pint  of  wine.  In  the  Pari- 
sian wine  shops  you  have  the  ^tier 
and  the  demi-setier.  The  spread  of 
beer  about  France  has  introduced 
the  hock;  hoch-bier  being  not  any 
particular  kind  of  beer,  but  beer 
sold  by  the  glassful  or  bockf ul. 

The  standard  of  weight  is  the 
gramme,  twenty-eight  of  which, 
three-tenths,  and  a  fraction,  are 
equal  to  our  ounce  avoirdapois. 
A  thousand  grammes,  or  a  kilo- 


A  Bm  to  Oe  SatOh  after  Oreatnare'ComforU. 


173 


gramme,  aie  equal  to  two  pounds, 
two-tenthfi,  and  a  fraction,  aToirdn- 
pois.  Conflequently,  the  demi-kilo- 
gramme  is  the  French  xepieBentatiye 
of  the  English  pound,  only  hearier, 
being  a  notable  and  agreeable  im- 
proyement  when  meats,  froits,  &c. 
are  bonght  in  qnantity.  Kilo- 
gramme is  cnrrentfy  abbreviated  to 
kilo,  and  demi-kilogramme  to  demi- 
kilo.  The  latter  is  popularly  called 
a  pound;  and  when  articles  are 
ticketed  in  shops,  according  to  law, 
so  much  the  demi-kilo,  you  may 
speak  of  them  as  so  much  the 
pound.  In  French  of  the  old  regime, 
before  the  Bevolution,  francs  are 
called  livres,  and  the  expression  is 
still  retained  by  many  old  &milies 
and  persons  daimiug  connection 
with  tnem.  Thus,  when  they  speak 
of  people  haying  so  many  thousand 
'  livres  de  rente,'  they  mean,  not  so 
many  thousand  pounds  but  so  many 
thousand  francs  of  income— a  won- 
derful difference.  Note  tiiat  livre, 
a  pound,  is  feminine,  une  livre,  while 
livre,  a  book,  is  masculine,  tin  livre. 
Consequently,  asking  for  un  livre  de 
yiandes,  would  be  requesting,  in 
yery  bad  French,  a  hook  <f  meats, 
Andjthat  is  all  we  will  trouble  you 
with  about  moneys,  measures,  and 
weights,  except  to  add  that  the 
French  are  not  blessed  with  the 
confusion  of  troy,  avoirdupois,  and 
apothecaries*  weights.  Everything 
is  weighed  alike  l^  the  granmie,  ite 
subdivisions,  and  ite  multiples. 
Diamonds,  perhaps,  may  be  still 
weighed  by  carate ;  but  they  are  not 
articles  of  daily  necessity. 

Anybody  can  find  his  way  to 
Paris,  and  everybody  may  discover 
there  hotels  suited  to  his  wante  and 
his  pocket  For  those  merely  pay- 
ing a  visit  to  the  place  called  by  M. 
Felletan  'La  Nouvelle  Babylon,' 
and  not  proceeding  further,  the 
situation  of  the  hotel  does  not 
matter  much,  provided  it  be  suit- 
able in  other  respects.  But  for 
the  traveller  on  the  move,  especially 
if  he  has  'early  to  rise,'  in  order  to 
be  punctual,  if  not  wealthy  and 
wise,  it  is  important  that  his  hotel 
should  not  be  too  £Eur  from  the 
station  from  which  he  has  to  start. 
Now  the  traveller  going  south  may 
reasonably  regret  that  the  great 


migority  of  hotels  are  in  the  central, 
western,  and  northern  parte  of  Paris, 
while  there  are  very  £9W  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  stetions  of 
the  Lyons  and  the  Orleans  rail- 
ways. To  meet  this  want,  I  see 
advertised,  but  have  not  tried, 
'  Grand  Hotel  du  Commerce,  en 
&oe  la  Gare  de  Lyon,  13,  Rue  Tra- 
versi^,  coin  de  la  Bue  de  Beroy. 
Excellente  teble  d'hdte  &  prix  mo- 
dern. Service  dans  les  chambres.' 
We  have  tried  inns  in  consequence 
of  seeing  them  advertised,  and  have 
had  good  reason  to  be  satisfied  with 
them.  There  is  also  at  14,  Bue  de 
Lyon,  pr^  la  Gaie,  the  '  Hdtel  de 
rUnivers,  Caf6-Besteurant^tenupar 
Malveau.  Cet  ^teblissement  se  re- 
commando  particuli^rement  a  Mes- 
sieurs les  Yoyageurs  par  la  modidt^ 
de  ses  prix  et  par  les  soins  apportes 
dans  le  service.'  Chambers  from 
I  fr.  50  c.  upwards.  The  reader  can 
venture  upon  either  of  these  upon 
his  own  responsibility.  Having  de- 
cided not  to  rise  early,  we  went  to 
an  unpretending  central  hotel 

It  will  be  remembered  that»  this 
summer,  heat  set  in,  throughout 
great  part  of  Great  Britain  and 
France,  if  not  the  whole,  on  Sunday, 
the  6th  of  June,  or  thereaboute, 
after  a  dull,  rainy,  and  sunless  May, 
making  practically  the  sudden  tran- 
sition of  a  plunge  from  a  cold  into  a 
hot-air  bath.  In  many  districte, 
nevertheless,  cold  weather  returned 
soon  afterwards. 

On  Monday,  the  7th,  we  left  the 
Channel  coast  for  Paris.  Our  se- 
cond-class carriage  was  an  approach 
to  an  oven,  from  the  sunbeams  ^ur- 
in^;  on  the  top.  This  inconvenience 
might  easily  be  obviated  by  a  fieJse 
or  double  roof  a  few  inches  above 
the  real  one,  with  the  intervening 
space  left  open  for  the  air  to  circu- 
late or  flow  between.  But  this  in- 
crease of  the  passengers'  comforts 
would  cost  the  company  a  certain 
outlay,  without  any  appreciable  re- 
turn. If  the  summer  tnmc  increased 
in  consequence,  they  would  surely 
attribute  it  to  some  other  cause. 
But  raQway  carria«[es  are  often  hot, 
at  storting,  from  having  been  left 
in  the  sun  with  the  windows  closed 
to  keep  out  dust,  but  keeping  in 
what  till  lately  was  called  caloric. 


174 


A  Bm  to  Oe  StmA  €^  Ckmhure-ComfartB. 


Although  double  loob  in  sammer 
woald  bo  tonie  expense,  shade  for 
keeping  eanriages  oool  might  sorely 
be  fonnd  ai  most  railway  stations, 
for  little  or  nothing. 

Bat  however  hot  it  may  be  when 
yon  set  oat  for  the  sonth,  never  fail 
to  take  yonr  wann  thin^  with  yon 
all  the  same.  Even  m  snmmer 
there  aie  times  and  plaoes  when  yoa 
will  be  glad  of  them-— daring  gosts 
of  the  mistral  and  other  wiods,  at 
high  elevations,  and  at  night  I 
have  canght  tio  dolorenz  (not  cbro- 
nie,  hai^uy,bat  safficiently  doloioos 
for  the  time)  by  crossing  the  Apen- 
nines lightly  dressed,  on  a  box  seat, 
in  sommar  time;  and  I  onoe  got 
a  nasty  toothache  at  Nice,  from 
beiog  (3ad  aooording  to,  not  what 
I  saw,  bat  what  I  had  heard  of  the 
dimats. 

We  'deaoended,'  as  the  French 
81^— not  to  make  a  mystery  where 
none  is  needed— at  the  H6tel  de 
Rooen;  bat,  as  there  are  several 
H6tets  de  Boaen  in  Paris,  we  add 
that  oars,  kept  by  M.  Lambert,  is 
Ma  13,  Boe  Notre  Daxoe  des  Yio- 
toires.  It  is  a  oaiet  hoase;  can 
dine  only  a  limited  nomber  of  gaests 
at  its  table  dlidte,  and  retains  the 
good  old-ftshioned  oastom  of  the 
master  of  the  hoose  himself  doing 
the  honoors  of  the  meal,  and  carv- 
ing the  joints  before  yoor  eyes.  We 
confess  that,  when  the  sixe  of  the 
party  render  it  possible,  we  greatly 
prefer  this  mode  to  having  them  cat 
np  at  a  side  table  by  waiters,  and 
distribated  bit  by  bit,  so  that  yoa 
have  often  little  choice  of  slices  or 
joints,  of  &t  and  lean,  of  well-done 
or  nnder-done,  and  sometimes  no 
other  choioe  than  Hobson's.  Now, 
if  people  like  to  have  a  choice  in 
anything,  it  is  sarely  as  mach  in 
regard  to  what  they  eat  as  to  what 
they  love.  It  is  no  more  pleasant 
to  have  victaala  forced  apon  as, 
than  companions  or  wives. 

Althooffh  the  dinners  here  are 
simple,  the  cookery  is  ezoelleni 
Soon  after  oar  aixival,  and  the  wel- 
come dostings  and  washings  that 
immediately  followed,  we  sat  down 
to  tapioca  soap ;  boiled  fowls,  with 
mashroom  saace ;  green  peas  ( Jone 
7th);  roast  beef,  new  potatoes, 
salad;  ooream  cheese,  strawberries; 


and  sweet  biseaitsu  Charge  3  francs 
per  head,  inolading  half  a  bottle 
each  of  good  ordinary  wine.  If 
more  is  called  for,  it  is  sapplied  at 
therataof  ifr.  socthebottle.  At 
night,  in  tidy  bedrooms,  we  foand 
that  real  treat  and  comfort,  a  large 
square  pillow  on  which  yoa  can  res^ 
not  merely  yoor  head,  bat— like  a 
handsome  dliah  of  cod  reposing  on 
its  parsley-ganiished  napkin— yoor 
honoored  and  handsome  head  and 
shoalders.  We  folly  intend,  on  oar 
retam,  again  descending  at  the 
Hdtel  de  Bonen— if  it  has  room  for 
as ;  which  reminds  me  that  it  will 
be  pradent  to  write  to  that  e£Eiect  a 
lew  days  beforehand. 

The  next  day  showed  as  some  of 
the  last  new  pranks  in  Paris.  First, 
there  were  tne  street  velocipedes; 
but  whether  the  velocipedes  paid 
the  young  men  for  riding  them,  or 
whether  the  youn^  men  paid  the 
velocipedes  for  bemg  ridden,  our 
minds  up  to  the  present  are  still  in 
doubt  Then  there  were  the  water 
velocipedes,  on  a  branch  of  the  lake 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne— ingenious 
certainly,  and  effectual,  if  you  could 
guarantee  water  never  to  be  rougher 
than  in  a  wash-hand  basin.  It  is  not 
mine  to  describe  a  young  gentleman 
in  white  ducks,  perched  on  a  saddle 
between  a  couple  of  canoes,  working 
treadles  or  pedals  with  his  feet, 
which  turn  a  wheel  between  the 
canoes  resembling  the  miniature 
paddle  of  a  steamboai  One  of 
your  artists,  in  some  Parisian  sketch, 
will  do  the  work  more  effectually 
than  I  can.  And  then  there  were 
the  young  women,  pretty  and  plain, 
who  seemed  in  sodi  a  hurry  to 
adopt  the  Bernese  costame  that  ao- 
curaoy  was  sacrificed  to  expedition 
and  expediency. 

Pleasing  is  the  boaquet  of  six 
feathered  fountains  in  the  Ohamps 
Elys^,  the  water  being  so  finely 
divided  as  to  have  the  effect  of 
marabout  plumes  stack  upon  a 
lady's  green  velvet  head-patch.  I 
use  the  word  advisedly,  for  bonnets 
and  hats  have  waned  almost  to 
nothingness.  If  they  are  not  to  be- 
oomeextinct— whichbonnet-makers, 
not  to  say  bonnet  wearers,  will 
never  allow— their  next  phase  must 
be  a  waxing  one,  nntil  liiey  attain 


A  fim  io  a«  SoA  afier  CreotMre-OomfoHs. 


175 


perliftpe  the  proportkmB  of  forty 
yean  aga  Of  the  lows  and  emeates 
BafafleqaenUy  reported  at  that  date 
ve  saw  and  heard  absolutely  no- 
thing; only  eveiybody  was  crazily 
numing  liter  seeond  editions  of 
every  evening  journal,  to  see  how 
the  elections  were  terminating ;  bat 
we  selfishly  asked, '  What  is  that  to 
us?*  Keverthelessy  we  were  not 
sorry  when  Fame's  trmnpet  told  ns 
that  the  'ineoonaileable'  socialist 
seamps  were  onsted,  and  that  Paris, 
oome  to  her  senses  again,  really  did 
prefer  reform  to  revoIutiQn. 

Our  jooney,  we  repeat,  begins 
at  FiuJa    A  halt  there  of  fonr-and- 
twent^  hoars  had  allowed  a  slight 
glance  at  the  latest  phase  of  that 
eyer-ohanging 'capital.    We  rarely 
travel  by  mfgbi,  becanse  it  is  prao- 
tioally  throwing  a  veil  over  the  tee 
of  nature,  as  fiu:  as  one's  self  is 
concemed;  nor  do  we  care  to  read 
in  a  carnage,  railway  or  other, 
althoagh  we  sometimes  write ;  pre- 
ferring to  look  out  of  window  as 
the  panorama  flashes  by,  and  to 
chat,  if  any  dhattable  person  is 
present,  or,  in  a  third-class  car- 
riage, to  look  on  and  listen,  on  the 
nnavoidable  condition  of  smelling 
bad  tobacco  and   worse   ludfers. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  present   in- 
stance, we  oetermined  to  take  the 
ilBtmoQS  train  No.  3,  and  stride  to- 
wards the  South  with  seven-league 
boots.    We  all  of  us,  the  healthy 
as  well  as  the  sick,  wanted  change 
complete— mora  complete  than  the 
thd  comjfUt  of  Flaris  hotels,  which, 
comprismg  only  bread  and  batter 
and  tea,  makes  a  very  incomplete 
breakfast  for  a  person  blessed  with 
an  appetite.  We  wanted  fresh  fields 
and  pastares  new;  that  is,  vege- 
tables and  fruits  not  yet  to  be  had 
in  the  North— tomatos,  aubergineB, 
and  what  not,  with  apricots  and 
peaches  and   plums    innumerable 
in  due  succession.     We   wanted, 
before  it  was  quite  too  late,  to  in- 
hale the  perfume  of  the  blossoming 
vinea   One  of  our  medical  advisers. 
Doctor  Instinct,  had  prescribed  a 
course  of  fresh  ripe  figs,  analogous 
to  the  Qerman  grape  cure;  and  in 
the  South  tiiey  are  to  be  had  by 
the  barrowfuL     They  remind  you 
of  Horace's  peasant  who  preased 


his  friend  to  eat  them,  because  'to- 
morrow they  will  be  given  to  the 
pigs.'  At  Pau  I  once  asked  a  fruiir 
woman  how  she  sold  her  fii^B. 
'Fifteen  for  a  sou.'  It  was  impos- 
sible to  bargain  or  cnimplaiu  of  Ihe 
price.  At  Bordeaux  I  afterwards 
put  the  same  question.  'The 
season  is  advanced,'  the  vendor  ex- 
plained. 'They  axe  very  fine, and 
figs  are  getting  scarce.  I  cannot 
let  you  have  them  for  less  than  four 
sous  the  dozen.'  It  was  not  worth 
while  to  deprive  oneself  of  the  last 
fig  of  summer  for  so  reasonable  a 
price. 

We  wanted  the  dry,  bitter  pun- 
gency of  the  Mediterranean  instead 
of  the  mild,  relaxing  moistness  of 
the  Channel.  We  wanted  the  moun- 
tain instead  of  the  plain,  the  self- 
sown  forest  instead  of  the  wheat- 
field,  the  leaping  cascade  instead 
of  the  slow  canal.  Above  all,  we 
wanted  the  daughters  of  fire,  the 
Pyrenees,  older  than  the  Alps,  with 
their  mystic  thermal  waters  stream- 
ing up  from  below  and  their  floods 
of  vivifying  light  pouring  down 
from  the  firmament  So;,  instead  of 
frittering  away  time  and  mon^  on 
the  road,  we  begged  train  No.  3  to 
carry  us  straight  to  Provence. 
With  time  at  our  disposal,  we  pre- 
ferred to  spend  it  on  the  shores  of 
the  transparent  tideless  sea  and  by 
the  banks  of  the  '  gaves'  or  moun- 
tain streams  which  run  liquid  dia- 
mond and  sapphire. 

For  travellers  going  seoond-dass 
by  omnibus  trains  the  long,  weary 
pull  is  from  Paris  to  Lyons.  It 
may  be  divided  into  two  days  by 
leaving  Paris  at  7*0  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  reach  Bij/aa  at  5*11;  and 
by  leaving  Dijon  at  noon  23  to 
reach  Lyons  at  7*15.  This  involves 
on  the  first  day  early  rising— un- 
welcome to  ladies  and  not  always 
relished  by  gentlemen.  It  may  be 
avoided  by  splitting  the  distance 
into  three  — thus:  Leave  Paris 
noon  ao;  reach  Tonnerre  6*27; 
leave  Tonnerre  noon,  59;  reach 
Beaune  6*46;  leave  Beaune  1*30 
afternoon;  reach  Lyons  7*i5«  Lyons 
is  full  of  excellent  hoteliB  of  various 
daises.  For  economy,  we  have 
tried  the  Hdtel  Duraad  et  Si  Nizier, 
which  gives  bedroom,  fareakfaat,  and 


176 


A  Bvn  to  Ae  8wlh  after  Creaktr&'Oomfarti. 


diimer  (wine  inolnded)  for  dz  tencs 
per  day,  and  were  well  satisfied 
with  what  we  got  for  the  money. 
A  great  recommendation,  in  so  large 
a  dty,  is  that  the  chambers  are  on 
tiie  first  or  second  floors. 

My  womankind  adopted  a  pre- 
cantion  for  the  night,  which  others 
under  like  drcmnstances  will  do 
well  to  consider.  For  stays  they 
snbetitated  flannel  jackets,  aflfbrd> 
ing  eqnal  warmth  and  greater  ease. 
Stays  are  no  longer  what  they  were 
— containing  pounds  of  iroo,  whale- 
bone, and  wood.  The  bask  of  a 
pair  of  stays  was  once  a  formidable 
weapon,  with  which  an  injured 
female  might  severely  punish  her 
ii\jurer.  Years  ago  I  witnessed  a 
bedloon  ascent;  the  occupants  of 
the  car  were  a  lady  and  a  gentle- 
man. The  balloon  only  just  refused 
to  rise,  and  it  was  OTident  that  it 
required  but  little  to  alter  the  equi- 
librium. The  gentleman,  before 
the  public,  relieyed  himself  of  coat 
and  shoes;  the  lady  retired,  and 
took  off  her  stays.  Thus  lightened, 
the  balloon  rose  majestically  in  the 
air;  that  is,  slowly  and  steadily. 
Modem  stays  are  not  like  those, 
but  still  they  are  a  confinement 
and  an  inoonyenience  to  a  certain 
extent. 

Not  very  many  passengers  travel 
by  this  rapid  express-train  No.  3, 
except  at  the  season  when  human 
swallows  are  flitting,  on  golden 
wings,  to  their  winter  quarters. 
To  be  able  to  get  into  it  all  you 
must  iake  your  ticket  for  some 
place  beyond  Lyons.  So  by  good 
luck  and  the  paucity  of  passengers 
we  get  a  carnage  all  to  onrselyes. 
Darkness  comes  on  late  and  day 
breaks  early  at  this  time  of  year, 
which  lEdiortens  the  tedium  of  the 
night  journey.  By  the  way,  what 
a  pretty  name  for  a  girl  is  the 
Damsh  '  Dagmar,'  or  Daybreak  1 
The  French  and  Latin  Aurore  and 
Aurora  are  not  to  be  compared  with 
it.  If  ever  I  were  presented  with 
another  female  infant  —  which  I 
hope  never  to  be;  though  nobody 
knows  what  he  may  come  to^and 
she  found  &your  at  first  sight,  I 
might  perhaps  have  her  called  Eos 
as  an  experiment,  omitting  the 
'  rhododactylos'  as  much  too  long. 


On  a  railway,  by  night,  you  can- 
not sleep,  but  only  dream  of  things 
wise  or  foolish,  of  people  good  or 
bad,  of  events  real  or  imaginary, 
but  all  equally  worrying  and  de- 
structive of  true  repose.  Better 
than  the  continuance  of  such 
troubled  slumbers  is  the  praise- 
worthy appearance  of  the  early- 
nain^  sun,  showing  you  the  mists 
hangmg  over  the  lowlands,  the 
distant  villages  sparkling  on  the 
hills,  the  notable  advance  of  vege- 
tation, and  the  new  flowers  and 
fruits  which  you  see  to-day  but 
which  you  did  not  see  yesterday. 
Those  skeleton  trees,  looking  like 
bits  of  winter  stuck  into  the  midst 
of  spring,  are  neither  dead  nor 
taking  the  repose  indulged  in  by 
tropical  trees  duriog  the  hot  dry 
season.  They  are  unfortunate  mul- 
beny-trees  stripped  of  their  leaves. 
We  are  in  a  silk-producing  region. 
The  green,  rounded,  pudding- 
shaped  ^hills  to  the  right  are  the 
outposts  of  the  once  volcanic  dis- 
trict of  Auvergne.  That  tall  &r-off 
mountain  to  the  left  is  Mont 
Yentoux,  which  we  may  render 
Mount  Windy  without  great  inac- 
curacy, the  most  westerly  sunmiit 
of  the  Alps.  The  last  time  I  saw 
it,  one  ^fine  October,  its  top  was 
completiely  covered  with  snow.  It 
has  now  only  broken  ribbons  of 
dirty  white,  which  are  partially 
veiled  by  the  morning  mists.  We 
reach  Avignon  nicely  in  time  to 
make  ourselves  tidy  for  the  table 
d*h6te  breakfast;  after  which  the 
womankind  betake  themselves  to 
bed. 

Tourists  venturing  down  to  the 
South  should  be  prepared  to  meet 
with  a  curious  meteorological  phe- 
nomenon. The  preparation  consists 
in  laying  in  a  stoc^  of  veils,  green 
spectacles,  goggles,  light  woollen 
mufflers,  and  other  appliances  that 
protect  you  from  dust  and  pene- 
trating winds.  The  phenomenon  is 
the  mistral,  a  stream  of  air  which 
has  undergone  a  peculiar  process. 
Blowing  from  the  Atlantic  as  a 
warm,  moist  west  wind,  it  passes 
up  the  valley  of  the  Loire.  In  the 
lofty  uplands  of  Farez  and  Auvergne 
it  is  cooled  and  robbed  of  great  ^ut 
of  its  moisture.     Then,  pouring 


A  Bun  to  the  South  after  Creature-Comforts, 


177 


down  into  the  Talley  of  the  Bhone, 
it  is  slightly  wanned  up  again,  and 
still  farther  dried  by  the  warming. 
It  is  occasionally  so  violent  as  to 
nproot  trees  and  unroof  houses, 
knock  down  elderlies,  and  blow- 
your  teeth  out  of  your  head.  Hence 
the  jingling  Latin  triplet  :— 

*  Avenlo  ventosa . 
Sine  vento  veneno^ ; 
Cum  yento  faslldloba.* 
'  Avignon  hu  breeaes 
That  give  yoa  the  sneezi^s. 
But  if  there's  no  breez?^ 
Look  out  for  dleeaaea ; 
If  plenty  of  breezes, 
For  dust,  that  displeases.' 

Any  one  producing  a  better  trans- 
lation shall  receive  a  crown  of  bay- 
leaves,  to  flavour  sauce  with. 

We  will  not  find  fault  with  the 
breezes  of  Avignon.  Daring  our 
short  stay  they  rendered  a  broiliug 
sun  bearable,  and  converted  op- 
pressive heat  into  a  delightful  sti- 
mulant. It  is  paradoxical,  but  true, 
that  you  feel  yourself  freshened  up 
and  invigorated  by  a  rather  gusty 
stream  of  warm  atmospheric  air. 
Nevertheless,  when  it  blows  so 
strong  that  you  cannot  hold  an 
umbrella  against  it  and  the  dust, 
it  becomes  rather  inconvenient; 
that,  however,  is  only  a  zephyr. 
From  another  specimen  we  had  of 
Avignon's  windiness  it  would  re- 
quire a  rather  imavoidablo  neces- 
sity to  make  us  take  up  our  resi- 
dence there. 

As  far  OS  my  own  experience  is 
concerned  in  going  South,  in  tho 
direction  of  Spain,  after  leaving 
Lyons  there  are  no  bearable  second- 
class  hotels,  or  there  is  a  great  dijQi- 
culty  in  finding  them  and  risk  in 
trying  them.  I  mean  hotels  where 
you  can  be  wholesomely  fed  and 
cleanlily  bedded  in  an  unpre- 
tentious style  at  a  moderate  ex- 
yense.  Such  hotels  abound  in  the 
northern  region  of  France.  They 
exist  also  in  such  places  as  Mar- 
seilles, Nice,  and  perhaps  Mentone, 
in  consequence  of  the  inunense 
competition  there.  I  remember 
once  being  well  (though  not  par- 
ticularly cheaply)  treated  at  Orange, 
north  of  Avignon— Hotel  de  la 
Posto,  if  I  remember  rightly.  Other- 
wise, generally,  the  only  eafe  course 

VOL.  XTI. — HO.  XCIT. 


is  to  go  to  the  best  hotel  in  the 
southern  towns,  and  pay  their 
prices,  renouncing  all  attempts  at 
economy.  At  those  I  am  about  to 
mention  the  charges  are  not  ex- 
cessive and  the  treatment  exceed- 
ingly good  and  liberal.  The  most 
unsatisfactory  set  of  hotels  I  know 
(except  that — to  give  a  certain 
personage  his  due— I  have  never 
found  in  them  uncleanly  or  in- 
sectiferous  beds)  lie  in  the  Italian 
direction  after  quitting  Marseilles. 
Swiss  blood,  more  or  less  inter- 
mixed with  French,  mostly  flows 
in  the  veins  of  the  proprietors,  who 
keep  up  a  fraternal  correspondence 
amongst  themselves,  and  send  you 
on  from  one  to  another  with  such 
strict  instructions  where  you  are  to 
go  to  that  it  requires  a  certain 
amount  of  strong-mindedness  to 
break  loose  from  the  trammels  of 
the  brotherhood.  I  know  none  of 
these  igentry  west  of  Marseilles,  and 
have  no  wish  to  make  the  discovery 
that  they  have  extended  themselves 
in  that  direction.  I  am  not  writing 
of  the  line  of  which  they  have  got 
possession;  and  of  course  could  not 
name  their  houses  if  I  were.  Their 
charges  are  high,  with  plenty  of 
'bougie,'  'service,'  &c.;  but  their 
distinguishing  characteristic  is  that, 
for  this,  you  get  scanty  and  Bar- 
mecidal  fare ;  they  contrive  to  feed 
you  on  air,  or  on  things  looking 
like  food  inflated  with  air.  They 
give  you  your  dinner  without  your 
victuals;  that  is,  with  little  scraps 
01  nothing  at  all,  made  to  pass  for 
'plats,'  or  dishes;  and  when  you 
have  devoured  all  your  bread,  to 
supply  the  vacancy,  after  dining, 
you  are  perfectly  ready  to  dine 
again.  Go  to  the  best  hotels  in  my 
South,  and  you  will  get  none  of 
that. 

At  Avignon,  we  went  to  the  Hotel 
d'Eurppe,  a  most  respectable,  al- 
most a  religious  house,  admirably 
conducted  by  Madame  Fierron,  a 
widow  lady.  Of  its  liberality  you 
can  judge  by  the  following  bills  of 
fare.  'A  nice  little  dinner,'  'an 
elegant  dinner,'  'a  capital  d^er,' 
'  a  jolly  good  dinner,'  are  vague  ex- 
pressions which  merely  indicate  the 
speaker's  appreciation  of  the  meali 
He  may  have  been  in  unusual  good 

N 


178 


A  fittii  /o  ike  S<niik  after  Creature^Comforts. 


humonr,  or  with  an  extra  sha^  ap- 
petite, and  so  have  landed  the  feast 
beyond  its  roal  ments.  Bat  a  bill 
of  lue,  with  the  annotation,  'well 
cooked  and  well  served/  allows  the 
candid  reader  to  ezeroiBe  his  im- 
prtial  jadgment  Besides  whioii, 
bills  of  fare,  while  recording  peat, 
aie  saggestiye  of  f ntuze  entertain- 
moDts. 

Take  one  day's  regimen.  Bieak- 
£Mrt  Twine  the  general  beverage;  we 
aakea  for  tea,  and  had  it) : 

Oold  slioed  ham  (excellent)  and 
Aries  sancisson,  a  sort  of  Bologna 
or  pdany  sansage ; 

Petits  pates;  little  patties;  ladies' 
monthfuls ; 
CkAd  roaat  fowl ; 
Sotiloped  fresh  water  crawfish ; 
Omelette  of  haricots  verts  or  green 
French  beans; 

Broiled  matton  chops,  fried  po- 
tatoes; 

Dessert   (taken   at  breakfast  as 
well   as   at  dinner),   strawberries, 
'Cherries  (two  sorts),  raisins,  Boqne- 
fart  cheese,  sweet  bisenits. 
Dinner:  ricepotage; 
Litlde  patties ; 

Grey  mnllet  boiled,  with  mnsh- 
room  sauce; 

Boast  fillet  of  beef  and  pickled 
gherkins ; 

Boast  leg  of  lamb  and  plain-boiled 
potatoes; 
Fricandean  of  veal; 
Boast  dncks,  with  green  peas ; 
Asparagus; 
Salad,  cheese ; 

Oabinet  pudding,  and  sponge  cako 
witii  whipped  cream ; 

Dessert :  strawberries,  cherries, 
dried  fruits,  and  biscuits. 

Each  of  the  foregoing,  being 
served  separately,  might  be  said 
to  constitute  a  course. 

With  another  sample  of  the  Hotel 
d'Europe's  dinners,  we  will  drop 
that  subject  for  the  present  On 
the  loth  of  June  they  gave  us : 

Clear  vermioelli  soup,  with  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  sf^Eron  in  it, 
probably  introduced  into  the  ver- 
micelli itself  at  the  time  of  its 
manufacture.  In  sulixy  weather 
tloB  is  an  agreeable  condiment,  of 
which  the  southerners  are  fond ; 

Fresh  tunny  (a  thick  slice  across 
the  tail  end  of  the  fish),  boiled,  gar- 


nished with  shred  cos  lettuce,  and 
accompanied  by  white  Dutch  sauce. 
A  novelty  to  most  of  us.  The  flesh, 
pinkish  while  uncooked,  is  grey  or 
whitey-brown  when  boQed.  Good, 
with  a  salmon  flavour,  but  still  not 
80  good  as  salmon,  to  which  it  is 
compared,  and  even  preferred,  by 
ultra-patriotic  Frencnmen,  Louis 
Figuier  to  wit,  in  his  '  Ocean  World,' 
translated  by  Messrs.  Chapman  and 
Hall; 
Tame  rabbit,  stewed  Isown ; 
Boiled  fowl  (which  doubtless 
helped  to  make  the  soup)  with 
green  peas; 
Braised  beef; 

Artichokes,  buttered  or  oiled  (we 
did  not  taste  them,  as  it  is  impos- 
sible for  stomachs  of  ordinary  power 
and  capacity  to  take  in  everytning) ; 
Boast  fowls  and  kidney  beans ; 
CSabinet  padding;  sponge  cake 
and  cream; 

Dessert;  strawberries,  cherries, 
cheese,  biscuits. 

An  honest,  substantial  dinner 
this,  supporting  the  wayworn  tra- 
veller, and  very  different  to  the 
four  or  five  francs'  worth  of  shreds 
and  nonsenses  with  which  we  have 
been  tantalised  in  the  ever-to-be- 
avoided  hotels  above  alluded  to. 
Be  it  mentioned,  however,  that 
Avignon  enjoys  an  old-established 
culinary  reputatiim,  which  would 
have  been  impossible  had  there 
ever  been  any  deficiency  in  quan- 
tity, quality  alone  not  sufficing  to 
satisfy  the  true  French  gastronome. 
For  whatever  may  be  the  current 
belief.  Frenchmen  eat  quite  as  much 
as  Englishmen;  I  should  say  con- 
siderably more. 

Avignon  is  south.  The  plague 
of  flies  has  begun.  Sugar,  dishes 
of  fruit,  sweet  biscuits,  &c.,  are 
protected  from  them  by  wire-gauze 
covers,  perhaps  to  prevent  their 
flying  away  with  them  bodily,  by 
combining  their  strength  into  a 
joint-stock  company.  To  repel 
them,  certain  butchers'  shops  are 
converted  into  huge  wire-gauze 
cages,  whose  entrance,  for  the  ad- 
mission of  wingless  two-legged  cus- 
tomers (on  business  only)  is  screened 
by  ample  drooping  nets  or  draperies. 
The  flies  are  undeniable  and  in- 
evitable; even  the  horses'  ears  are 


A  Bun  to  the  South  efter  Creaimre'Cloafmii. 


179 


«rmecl  mgrnnst  fheir  attadkB  by  a 
flort  of  batkins,  or  ear-gloveB,  wbioh 
encase  thatezpresaiye  feature  of  the 
snimars  head.  Certainly,  there  are 
flies,  and  no  mistake ;  happily,  they 
are  not  goats,  mosqnitos,  coasiiiB; 
still  less  are  they  the  insect  enemies 
who  ftighten  yon  to  death  in  a  word 
0f  three  letters :  so  we  componnd 
with  the  oload  of  flies,  and  bear 
ihem. 

Ayignon  is  sonth.  The  sun  is 
fierce,  and  deserres  the  honour  of 
being  eneonntered  by  a  white  nm- 
brella  with  a  green  silk  lining.  Bat 
then  there  is  the  breeze,  which  to- 
day muMt  please ;  moreoTer,  we  mnst 
give  the  son  some  credit  for  those 
most  aromatic  strawberries,  those 
bigarrean  'cherries,  hard  bnt  hand- 
some, those  delicate  green  peas, 
broad  beans,  Tast  wMte  onions, 
French  beans,  and  new  potatoes,  at 
will.  In  most  oases,  there  are  com- 
pensating or  eztennating  ciromn- 
stanoes.  Bat  onr  arrival  at  the 
south  is  revealed  by  the  nniveisal 
snbstitation  of  curtains  for  doors, 
and  the  frequent  replacement  of 
glass  windows  by  wooden  shutters. 
To  escape  the  blinding  glare  of  sun- 
shine, whether  reflected  or  direct, 
dingy  dens  of  gloomiest  aspect  are 
made  to  serve  for  the  occupations  of 
daily  life. 

Look  at  the  mouth  of  that  sombre 
cavern;  it  is  arohed  with  stone. 
Within,  lies  Cimmerian  darkness— 
not  having  any  dictionaries  to  refer 
to,  /  don't  know  what  that  is.  Do 
youf — Obscurity  impenetrable  to 
the  naked  eye,  at  fini  But  ap- 
proach ;  nay  set  one  step  within  the 
cave.  As  your  organs  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  gloom,  there  come 
forth  into  visibility,  not  lions  and 
tigers,  bnt  less  ferocious  animals, 
white,  brown  and  black,  which  a 
whinny  and  a  neigh  inform  you 
are  horses;  what  seemed  rocky 
boulders  are  bundles  of  hay;  and 
the  plashing  cascade  is  no  more  than 
the  filliog  of  a  pail  at  the  water  tap. 
It  is  a  meridional  stable ;  that  is  all. 
Behold  that  other  grotto,  by  no 
means  cool.  By  the  same  patient 
mode  of  investigation  you  discover 
sundry  ovoid,  annular,  and  fusiform 
bodies  heaped  in  groups  or  ranged 
in  rows.    In  the  innermost  recesses 


of  the  grot  ycm  ^perceive  a  rvMy 
subterranean  glare,  which  is  not  an 
outbreak  of  volcamc  fire,  bat  the 
dying  embers  of  a  baker's  oven; 
the  strangely-shaped  substanoes  are 
the  loaves.  And  finally,  the  in- 
creased sensibiliiy  of  your  optic 
nerves  shows  you  the  baker  himself, 
his  wife,  and  his  journeyman.  De- 
lighted at  findmg  those  weM  ap- 
peonmces  to  be  only  the  loeal  cos- 
tume of  a  useful  trade,  you  Totreat 
back  into  the  hot  glare  again,  and 
make  straight  for  the  shady  side  of 
the  street.  There,  while  you  are 
curiously  gazing  at  some  unmistak- 
ably genuine  copies  of  did  portraits, 
you  are  yourself  as  curiously  inves- 
tigated by  their  proprietress,  « 
wrinkled  female  head  in  the  Pro- 
vencal head-<b:6ss— a  band  of  black 
velvet  ribbon  bound  round  the  head, 
surmounted  by  a  small  lace  crown — 
not  unbecoming  to  either  old  or 
young;  but  I  dont  think  you  will 
be  quite  so  green  as  even  to  ask  the 
price  of  her '  antiquities.' 

Most  of  these  southern  towns  in- 
close and  conceal  a  sort  of  cmstaceo- 
human  life.  The  vitality  lurking 
within  them  is  protected  from  ex- 
cessive light  and  heat  by  a  thick 
calcareous  envelope.  Avignon  has 
a  wafl^,  whitey-brown  look,  though 
not  made  of  paper  but  of  solid  stone. 
As  becomes  a  city  of  the  popes,  it  is 
thoroughly  mediaeval  and  southern 
in  its  interior  aspect,  with  all  the 
ground-floor  windows  strong  iron- 
barred  and  shuttered,  to  keep  out 
thieves  and  radiation.  Doors,  as  I 
have  mentioned,  are  replaced  in  the 
daytime  by  curtains,  at  the  same 
time  admitting  air  and  effectually 
baffling  prying  eyes.  In  the  lower 
town,  the  houses  have  the  Torkish 
and  the  Arab  look  of  all  turning 
their  backs  on  the  street  Shops 
there  are  none,  or  few  and  far 
between.  For  them  you  must 
mount  to  the  narrow  little  streets 
which  kindly  stretch  sail-cloths  from 
house  to  house,  to  keep  out  the  in- 
trusive sunbeams.  The  stranger 
will  most  easily  reach  them,  hud, 
through  them,  the  strong- smelling 
market-place,  by  crossing  the  little 
Place  du  Change,  funnily  shaped 
like  an  ill-made  hour-glass,  where 
he  may  witness,  and  if  he  likes, 
K  a 


180 


A  Bun  to  ike  South  after  Crealure'Comforts. 


adopt,  the  aoathem  onstom  of  drink- 
ing hot  ooffee  out  of  a  beer-glass, 
flimked  by  a  cmet-full  of  brandy 
ad  libitum. 

The  monnmental  wonder  of  Avig- 
non is  the  old  colossal  palace  of  the 
popes.  Its  huge  nnoonthness  is 
overpowering.     Below  it  is  a  le- 

r  table,  partly-new  square,  with 
theatre  and  some  caf^s  in  it; 
but  to  me,  quite  an  eyesore  (literally 
so,  from  the  dust  sweeping  through 
it)  is  the  long  straight  new  street, 
the  Bue  Bonaparte,  starting  out  of 
the  square,  like  a  ball  shot  from  a 
cannon's  mouth,  and  hitting  its 
mark  nobody  knows  wheie,  after  the 
true  Parisian  Haussmann  Deishion, 
at  least  as  Dbut  as  straightness  and 
persistence  are  concerned;  no  con- 
sideration can  turn  it  from  its  ob- 
ject But  in  Avignon  the  construc- 
tion of  such  a  new-fSEtngled  street  is 
like  tacking  a  paltry  bit  of  trumpery 
new  cloth  on  an  old,  once  rich,  but 
now  threadbare  garment— a  failure 
and  a  nuisance,  as  well  as  an  incon- 
sistency. None  but  the  crookedest 
of  streets  can  resist  the  blasts  of  so 
gusty  a  climate. 

As  a  general  rule,  if  you  are  mis- 
anthropically  inclined  and  wish  to 
retreat  into  absolute  solitude,  you 
have  only  to  seek  the  public  prome- 
nade of  a  provinciid  town.  With- 
out being  prompted  by  any  unsocial 
motive,  we  climbed  the  grass-grown 
steps  and  weed-covered  slopes  which 
lead  to  the  cathedral  and  the  ac- 
cent garden,  and  found  the  Dom  des 
Bochers  of  Avignon  no  exception  to 
the  remark.  Perhaps  one  reason 
why  people  don't  go  there  is  the 
fear  of  being  blown  away  beyond 
recovery.  IVom  whatever  cause, 
you  might  commit  murder  or  sui- 
cide there  frequently  without  fear 


of  any  observant  eye  to  witness  th& 
deed.  The  situation  is  undeniably 
fine,  conunanding  a  grand  sweep  of 
the  Bhone  and  an  intimation  of  its 
approaching  junction  with  the  Du- 
rance, and  with  Mont  Ventouz  loom- 
ing hazily  leagues  away.  But  to 
get  a  correct  idea  of  the  power  and 
magnitude  of  the  Bhone  itself,  which 
looks  rather  small  and  poor  while 
you  are  skirting  it  on  the  railway, 
vou  must  cross  it  on  the  suspension 
bridge— a  pleasant  promenade,  but 
purchased  by  that  rarity  in  France, 
atoll. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
of  Thursday  we  had  militaxy  music 
on  the  promenade  which  skirts  the 
left  bank  of  the  Bhone.  Operatic 
music — ^tbat  is,  music  accompanying 
and  illustrating  dramatic  action— 
when  good  is  very  charming;  but 
there  is  no  purer  or  more  harmonious 
setting  for  music  than  the  flow  of  a 
river  or  the  fall  of  a  cascade.  Both 
move  on  smoothly  and  evenly  to- 
gether; and  other  strains  as  well  a& 
'Flow  on,  thou  shining  river/  ac- 
cord well  with  the  onward  gliding 
of  a  stream,  when  rapid  enough, 
as  the  Bhone  is  here,  to  be  percep- 
tible to  the  eye. 

Travellers  having  half  a  day  to 
spare,  and  seeking  shelter  from  the 
arrows  of  far-darting  Apollo,  not  to 
mention  a  refuge  from  wind  and 
dust,  will  do  well  to  spend  it  in  the 
Mus^  Calvet.  There,  amongst 
other  inveresting  objects,  they  will 
see  Horace  Yemet's  two  original 
pictures  from  which  the  popular 
print  of  Mazeppa  bound  to  the 
white  horse  and  pursued  by  wolves 
is  taken.  There  is  also  the  picture, 
engraved  and  made  popular  at  an 
earlier  date,  of  the  Centaur  teaching 
yoimg  Achilles  to  draw  the  bow. 
E.  S.  D. 


(Tohe  continued.) 


^^^^^^ 


181 


THE  MATEIMONIAL  AGENT. 


LONDON  supplies  the  fashionable 
districts  of  Paris  with  pick- 
pockets—why, it  is  difficalt  to  com- 
prehend, as  I^nchmen,  as  a  rale, 
nave  grater  delicacy  of  touch  thim 
the  broad-digited  sons  of  Albion. 
Paris,  in  retnrn,  sends  us  clever 
•swindlers  of  yarions  types,  whose 
main  field  of  action,  however,  appears 
to  be  the  Giiy  anditspnrliens,po68ibly 
because  the  western  districts  are  too 
oyerrnn  by  our  native-born  sharp- 
•ers,  who,  spite  of  their  undoubted 
inventive  genius,  nevertheless  rarely 
seem  to  hit  upon  the  same  ultra- 
refined  way  of  fleecing  particular 
flections  of  the  communi^  as  then: 
Parisian  brethren  practise  with  such 
marked  success. 

The  one  imposition,  on  a  grand 
«cale,  which  flourishes  in  Paris,  un- 
restrained by  the  law,  is  the  Matri- 
monial Agency.  One  can  under- 
stand the  immense  field  it  has  open 
to  it  in  a  country  like  France,  where 
marriages  are  far  more  afiEdirs  of  the 
purse  than  of  the  heart,  and  where 
€very  female  servant,  and  every 
shopgirl,  even,  saves  up  her  'dot' 
as  her  only  chance  of  obtaining  a 
partner  for  life.  The  most  im- 
portant of  these  agencies  send  out 
their  circulars  quarterly  to  all  the 
Jiommes  d'affaires  in  France ;  and  an 
'extract  from  one  of  these  documents, 
that  has  accidentally  come  beneath 
our  notice,  deserves  to  be  given 
verbatim. 

'  I  entertain  the  conviction,  mon- 
sieur, that  in  your  neighbourhood — 
or  at  any  rate  among  your  ccmnections 
— ^you  will  either  know  or  chance  to 
hear  of  certain  young  ladies  who 
may  happen  to.  be  placed  in  the 
•embarrassing  position  of  not  being 
able  to  contract  a  suitable  marriage, 
<nther  in  accordance  with  their  tastes 
or  their  just  pretensions.  I  venture, 
therefore,  to  do  myself  the  pleasure 
«f  furnishing  you  with  an  epitome  of 
those  actual  and  seriously-disposed 
parties  of  whom  I  have  tiie  honour 
to  be  the  intermediary. 

'  I.  A  foreign  prince,  well  known 
in  the  highest  circles  for  his  irre- 
proachable manners  and  agreeable 
physiognomy.     He  is   thirty-four 


years  of  age,  and  has  from  eight 
hundred  thousand  to  a  million 
francs  of  fortune^  with  carriages, 
horses,  &a 

*  2.  A  magistrate,  thirty-five  years 
of  age,  and  with  an  income  of  a 
hundred  thousand  francs. 

'  3.  Several  doctors,  twen^-five 
to  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  pos- 
sessingincomes  ranging  from  twenty 
to  fifty  thousand  francs. 

'  4*  Numerous  merchants,  &c., 
from  twenty-five  to  forty  years  of 
age,  with  incomes  varying  from 
twenty  to  thirty  thousand  francs. 

'  5.  Some  "rentiers,"  fifom  foriy 
to  fifty  years  of  age,  and  with  from 
thirty  thousand  to  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  income.' 

This  circular,  curious  in  many  re- 
spects, has,  however,  nothing  novel 
about  it  It  would  be  necessaiy 
that  one  should  never  have  looked 
into  a  French  newspaper  to  ignore 
the  various  temptations  to  which 
these  high  priests  of  Hymen  make 
a  point  of  incessantly  exposing  a 
who  happen  to  be  single. 

The  matrimonial  agent,  with  whom 
just  now  we  are  more  particularly 
concerned,  invariably  has  on  the 
books  of  his  establishment  all  that 
can  be  wished  for,  and  everything, 
moreover,  would  appear  to  be  of  the 
very  best.  There  are  blondes  and 
brunettes,  short  and  tall,  stout  and 
thin  ones,  of  high  birtii  or  high 
connections,  and  of  both  sexes.  He 
has,  in  fact,  all  coIouib,  all  sizes,  all 
shapes,  and  all  qualities.  The  price, 
moreover,  is  not  absolute;  he  will 
permit  us  to  bargain  with  him, 
although  he  does  not  neglect  to  in- 
form  us  that  his  extensive  connec 
tions  assure  an  incontestable  supe. 
riority  to  his  articles  over  those  of 
other  establishments.  His  clientele 
he  informs  us,  comprises  the  elite  of* 
society  only. 

The  originator  of  this  singular 
avocation  has  retired  on  the  fortune 
and  the  honours  he  derived  from  the 
successftd  pursuit  of  it,  but  his  suc- 
cessors, who  continue  to  preach  the 
scriptural  doctrine  of  increase  and 
multiply,  do  not  appear  to  have  been 
equally  fortunate  in  mating  their 


182 


The  MabrimotUdl  Agent, 


clients,  for  one  sees  the  same  adver- 
tuement  constantly  repealed.  'It  is 
desired  to  marry  a  young  lady,  poft- 
seesing  thirty  thonsaiid  francs  a  year, 
to  en  indiyidnal  of  an  honourable 
profession.  Fortune  lees  a  consideia- 
tion  than  strictly  moral  conduct' 

The  advertisenifint  occasionally 
Taries,  and  one  is  enabled  to  make  a 
selection  from  a  thousand  francs  a 
year  up  to  two  hundred  thousand, 
from  aged  fifteen  to  aged  seTenty. 
Address,  poet  paid.  No.  — ,  Avenue 
Montaigne. 

One  day,  a  representative  of  that 
common  class  of  young  men  who  ex- 
haust all  their  patrimony  during  the 
first  few  years  of  their  liberty,  pre- 
sented himself,  over  head  and  ears 
in  debt,  to  one  of  these  matrimonial 
agents,  having  come  to  extricate 
himself  from  his  difficulties  by 
uniting  himself  to  a  pretended 
dowry  of  three  thousand  francs  a 
year,  a  modest  and  probable  enough 
dowry.  After  a  few  preliminary  ex- 
planations, the  agent  asked  him, 
according  to  custom,  for  two  hun- 
dred francs  fbr  expenses,  at  which 
the  disabused  suitor  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  naively  observed — 

'  Is  it  likely,  I  ask  you,  that  I 
should  think  of  tying  myself  to  a 
wife  if  I  was  in  possession  of  a  couple 
of  hundred  francs  V 

No  reply  could  be  made  to  so 
pertinent  an  observation,  and  the 
negotiation,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
fell  to  the  ground. 

Bachelors  who  have  lost  every- 
thing need  a  dowry  to  refill  their 
pur^e,  and  a  nurse  for  their  rheu- 
matism. They  notice  one  morning 
in  the  newspaper,  between  the 
*  Eau  de  melisse  des  Carmes '  and 
'  Machines  silendeux  a  ooudre,'  an 
advertisement  of  a  lady  wishing  to 
marry,  and  who  is  handsome,  young, 
witty,  modest,  and  amiable,  and,  best 
of  all,  who  is  ballasted  with  thirty 
thousand  francs  a  year.  Address  (as 
usual)  No.  — ,  Avenue  Montaigne. 

At  least  one  individual  out  of  the 
thousands  who  read  the  advertise- 
ment will  be  certain  to  think  this 
the  very  thing  to  suit  him,  and  will 
make  a  point  of  writing  to  the  ad- 
dress indicated.  Two  days  afterwards 
an  answer  arrives.  With  a  trem- 
bling hand  he   opens  the   enve- 


lope, and  with  palpitating  heart 
devours  the  reply,  the  purport  of 
which,  however,  will  simply  be,  that 
'  affiurs  of  this  nature  cannot  be 
discussed  freely  by  correspondence.^ 
He  is  begged,  therefore,  to  favour 
the  agent  with  a  call  at  No.  — ,. 
Avenue  Montaigne,  and  he  shall  re- 
ceive further  information.  In  con- 
clusion he  is  assured  that,  having 
been  the  first  to  reply  to  the  adver- 
tisement, a  preference  will  be  ac- 
corded him. 

The  bureau  of  the  agent  at  the 
address  indicated  turns  out  to  be  in 
a  very  fine  house,  all  the  wmdows 
of  which  look  into  the  street  A 
footman  in  livery  introduces  the 
would-be  bridegroom  into  a  magni- 
ficent ao^on  furnished  with  exquisite 
tasto,  and  the  open  folding-doors  of 
which  permit  him  to  see  on  the  right 
and  on  the  left  what  appears  to  be  a 
suite  of  splendid  apartments.  Every- 
thing breathes  of  love  and  marriage ; 
copies  of  Watteau's  Isle  of  Gytherea 
and  Veronese's  Marriage  of  Cana, 
with  kindred  subjects,  adorn  the 
walls.  The  timepiece  is  surmounted 
by  an  amatory  shepherd  and  shep- 
herdess, above  whom  hover  a  pair  of 
billing  and  cooing  doves.  The  can- 
delabra are  formed  of  torches  of  Hy- 
men, Cupids  gambol  in  the  angles 
of  the  ceiling,  and  the  tables  are 
covered  with  books,  all  treating  of 
the  one  eternal  subject,  from  the 
loves  of  angels  to  the  loves  of  plants. 
And  as  if  to  complete  the  picture 
a  couple  of  pretty  children,  a 
Cupidon  and  a  Psyche,  in  knicker- 
bockers and  crinoline,  are  playing 
upon  the  hearthrug. 

A  bell  rings,  and  soon  the  agent 
makes  his  appearance,  with  innu- 
merable apologies  for  having  kept 
his  visitor  waiting,  pleading  the 
numerous  afOairs  he  has  on  hand  as 
his  excuse.  At  the  conclusion  of 
this  exordium  he  wipes  his  brows 
with  an  embroidered  cambric  hand- 
kerchief; then  rings  the  bell  and 
orders  a  basin  of  soup,  which  is 
served  to  him  in  a  silver  bowl  by 
the  servant  who  answered  the  door. 
The  agent  expresses  surprise  at  his 
performing  this  duty—asks  him 
where  Pierre,  Joseph,  and  Fran9ois 
are,  to  which  the  lacquey  replies, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  that 


2%e  Mainmomal  Agent, 


18a 


fhe  first  has  gone  to  the  hank,  the 
seoond  about  the  hex  at  the  Oper% 
and  the  third  upon  the  business  of 
M.  le  Gomte,  who  called  yesterday. 

Hov  should  the  visitor  escape 
being  dazzled  by  such  deceitful  ap- 
peaiancea-- for  they  are  appearances 
only  ?  the  one  footman  he  has  seen 
being  Pierre,  Joseph,  Francois,  and 
himself,  who,  in  fact,  does  everything. 

The  foregoing  is  the  prologue; 
now  commences  the  comedy. 

The  agent:  *  Monsieur,  will  you 
kindly  explain  the  object  of  your 
visitr 

Thus  called  upon,  the  visitor 
produces  the  letter  he  has  received, 
and  at  the  same  time  hands  the 
agent  his  card,  saying — 

'  I  had  the  honour,  as  you  will 
remember,  of  writing  to  you  on  the 
subject  of  the  advertisement  in  the 
''Figaro  "of  Wednesday  last.  When 
can  I  be  presented  to  the  lady  ?* 

'  Excuse  me,  but  you  are  pro- 
ceeding a  little  too  fast;  allow  me, 
first  of  all,  to  ask  you  a  few  ques- 
tions.   Have  you  any  profession  ?* 

'No.' 

'Any  fortune?' 

'  Nothing  to  speak  of:  but  I  have 
good  expectations.' 

'  Umph !  How  about  your  ante- 
cedents ?* 

'  You  are  at  liberty  to  make  any 
inquiry  you  think  requisite.' 

And  so  the  conversation  pro- 
ceeds, kept  up  by  the  agent  solely 
with  the  object  of  measuring  the 
precise  degree  of  intelligence  which 
his  visitor— soon  to  be  his  victim — 
possesses,  and  to  satisfy  himself 
what  precautions  it  is  necessary 
should  be  taken  so  that  he  may 
not  be  too  much  compromised,  in 
the  event  of  a  subsequent  explo- 
sion. Suddenly  he  rises  and  pro- 
duces a  book  of  photographs ;  refers 
to  the  index,  and  opens  the  volume 
at  a  particular  page,  ¥^ere  he  points 
out  the  portrait  of  a  handsome 
young  lady,  whose  attractions  he 
highly  extols.  His  visitor  cannot 
resist  admitting  these  eulogies  to 
be  merited. 

A  moment  of  silence  now  ensues, 
during  which  the  pair  eye  each 
other.  The  conversation  is  resumed 
by  the  agent,  who  says,  with  an  air 
of  perfect  frankness^ 


'  There  is  no  need  to  go  beaiiag 
about  the  bush ;  let  us  come  at  once 
to  the  point.  In  the  event  of  every- 
thing being  satisfactorily  arranged, 
my  terms  will  be  five  per  cent,  upon 
the  dowry.' 

'  That  is  fisur  enough.' 

'  Payable,  mind,  when  yon  re- 
ceive it' 

'  I  am  perfectly  agreeable.' 

And  in  truth  it  would  be  the 
height  of  ill-breeding  to  refuse  to 
pay  Buefa  a  slender  commission, 
asked  so  courteously  by  a  man  who 
procures  you  a  fortune,  of  whioh 
you  stand  so  greatly  in  need,  and, 
as  he  assures  you,  a  charming 
bride,  who,  though  not  an  object  of 
equal  necessity,  is  still  a  treasure  in 
herself.  The  afi^oir  is,  therefore^ 
settled;  but  before  proceeding  fur- 
ther, the  agent  requires  to  be  in- 
sured against  his  expenses  for  in«- 
qulries^  messages,  postages,  &c., 
which  seems  reasonable  enough. 
These  expenses  vary  according  as 
the  suitor  is  more  or  less  credulous 
and  the  dowry  large  or  smalL  lii 
the  present  instance,  the  agent  asks 
three  hundred  francs.  '  For  another 
couple  of  hundred,'  he  adds,  '  yon 
may  become  a  subscriber  to  my 
estabh'shment  for  an  entire  yew, 
which  will  give  you  the  run  of  it, 
and  confer  on  you  the  right  of  bdng 

E resented  to  all  the  eligible  ladies  I 
ave  on  my  books— and  I  have  them 
mounting  up  to  sixty  thousand 
francs— within  that  period,  until 
you  succeed  in  suiting  yoursell' 

The  gull  in  the  present  instance^ 
being  as  mercenary  as  he  is  simple, 
pays  the  five  hundred  francs,  and 
receives  in  exchange  for  his  money 
a  memorandum,  upon  stamped 
paper,  setting  forth  the  conditions 
of  the  engagement,  and  for  register- 
ing which  he  is  charged  another  ten 
francs.  Our  would-be  Benedict  now 
awaits  with  juvenile  ardour  the 
moment  when  the  first  interview  is 
to  take  placa 

In  a  day  or  two  he  receiveB  a 
letter  from  the  agent,  making  an 
appointment  to  present  him,  at 
No.  — ,  Avenue  Montaigne.  It  ia 
needless  to  say  that  he  dresses  him- 
self with  scrupulous  care,  bestows 
the  entire  morning,  in  fact,  upon  his 
toilet,  and  calte  to  mind  all  the  more 


ISi 


The  Matrimonial  Agent, 


gmcefal  oompliments  that  he  has 
heard  addressed  to  fiancees  on  the 
stage.  His  part  duly  rehearsed,  he 
hastens  to  the  appointment  before 
the  presoribed  time,  and  is  ushered 
into  the  drawing-room. 

The  agent  is  awaiting  him,  and 
gives  him  a  few  hints  respecting  the 
young  lady's  tastes ;  she  is  musical, . 
of  course;  is  an  entomologist,  and 
manages  a  three-wheel  yelocipede 
very  giacefully,  he  is  told.  This 
will  guide  him  in  his  selection  of 
subjects  for  conversation. 

The  lady  soon  after  arrives,  es- 
corted by  her  aunt,  and  is  found  to 
answer  all  the  expectations  raised 
by  her  portrait.  She  glances  mo- 
destly at  her  expected  lord  and 
master,  displays  a  pair  of  pretty 
feet  peeping  beneath  a  coquettish 
petticoat  as  she  gathers  her  robe  a 
queue  around  her  while  seating  her- 
self, converses  charmingly  yet  with 
becoming  diffidence,  and  indeed  is 
altogether  fascinating.  The  aunt, 
too,  seems  a  very  nice  sort  of  a 
person,  and  not  too  strict  a  chape- 
rone.  In  due  course  the  interview 
comes  to  an  end,  and  the  ladies  pre- 
pare to  take  their  departure ;  when 
the  dupe  proposes  to  the  agent  to 
escort  tiiem,  but  finds  himself  re- 
strained— it  would  be  indelicate  at 
this  early  period  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, he  is  told. 

This,  however,  is'  not  the  true 
reason :  the  fiust  is,  the  ladies  do  not 
leave  the  house,  and  it  is  important 
the  dupe  should  not  know  this. 
Niece  and  aunt  are  hired  at  so  much 
a  day,  and  are  clothed  and  boarded 
into  the  bargain.  They  have  every 
description  of  toilette  necessary  to 
their  transformation  provided  for 
them,  and  are  of  fair  or  dark  com- 
plexions, and  quiet  or  coquettish  in 
their  attiro,  according  to  the  tastes 
•of  different  clients— the  aunt,  it 
should  be  mentioned,  has  a  suppo- 
sititious '  dot  'of  her  own,  sufficiently 
large  to  tempt  the  cupidity  of  the 
unwary.  This  facility  of  being  one 
individual  to-day  and  another  to- 
morrow is  not  without  its  advan- 
tages, in  case  tiiedupe  should  lodge 
any  complaint:  for  he  would  fail  to 
describe  the  woman  accurately,  and 
the  authorities  would  feel  them- 
selves embarrassed  at  the  outset. 


Every  time  that  niece  and  aunt 
are  about  to  be  presented  t3  a  client, 
the  footman  sets  the  doo^bell  ring- 
ing with  a  broom;  whereupon  the 
agent  announces  to  his  visitor  that 
they  have  arrived.  After  the  first 
interview,  he  insinuates,  mildly, 
that  it  would  advance  the  negotia- 
tion if  they  were  asked  to  accept 
of  a  breakfast, '  as  at  table  one  speaks 
more  freely,  especially  after  a  glass 
of  champagne;'  and  volunteers  to 
use  his  powers  of  peisuasion  to  in- 
duce them  to  accept  the  invitation. 
'  If  it  can  be  managed,'  he  adds, 
'  you  can  then  very  wedl  offer  to 
escort  them  home.'  The  agent  gives 
the  dupe  to  understand  that  the 
breakfast  must  take  place  at  No.  — , 
Avenue  Montaigne,  and  proposes  to 
provide  it  for  four  people  ror  sixty 
francs :  '  which  is  dirt  cheap,'  he  ob- 
perves ; '  but  as  he  has  the  wine  in 
his  cellar  he  does  not  drive  bargains 
with  friends.' 

At  breakfast  the  table  is  covered 
with  solid  cold  dishes,  in  the  English 
ftishion— a  large  joint  of  roast  beef, 
a  ham,  and  a  superb  turkey.  The 
ladies  partake  of  the  hora-d'ornvres 
only  and  the  side  dishes,  and  firmly 
refuse  when  either  a  slice  of  beef  or 
turkey  is  offered  them.  It  is  the 
same  with  the  'sweets,'  simply  be- 
cause the  principal  dishes  have,  like 
themselves,  to  be  served  up  again  to 
other  subscribers  to  the  Matrimo- 
nial Agency  in  the  Avenue  Mon- 
taigne. 

Under  one  pretext  or  another, 
they  manage  to  leave  the  table  be- 
fore the  conclusion  of  the  repast. 
One  of  them  finds  herself  indis- 
posed, or  the  aunt  has  an  appoint- 
ment with  the  family  notary,  or,  as  a 
lost  resource,  the  agent  desires  a  few 
minutes'  important  conversation 
with  the  dupe,  who  at  any  rate  does 
not  see  them  home.  After  their 
pretended  departure,  the  agent, 
while  assuring  him  that  everything 
is  progressing  most  favourably, 
delicately  insinuates  that  before 
proceeding  further  it  is  absolutely 
lequisite  to  send  to  his  native  place 
to  obtain  precise  information  not 
only  respecting  himself  but  liis 
family  and  connections.  The  guar- 
dians of  the  young  lady  insist  on 
this  course  being  i&sau    An  early 


The  Matrimonial  Agent. 


185 


day  is  appointed  to  arrange  the  pre- 
liminaries, and  on  going  to  the 
agent's,  the  dupe  finds  the  lady  and 
her  annt  there—by  the  merest 
chance.  In  their  presence  a  clerk  is 
snmmoned  and  the  necessary  indi* 
cations  drawn  up  in  writing. 

The  clerk's  expenses  and  time, 
together  twenty  francs  a  day,  for 
say  a  week,  as  two  days  will  be  con- 
sumed in  trayelling,  with  eighty 
francs  for  railway  and  dib'gence  fare, 
will  have  to  be  paid.  The  client 
hesitates  at  this  new  drain  npon 
bun,  whereupon  the  axmt,  in  the 
most  natural  maimer  in  the  world, 
Tolnnteers  to  bear  half  the  expenses, 
and,  to  set  the  dupe  an  example, 
produces  her  purse,  an  el^ant 
knitted  bead  one,  and  hands  the 
agent  her  share.  With  the  view  of 
paying  court  the  dupe  admires  the 
purse;  ia  informed—as  indeed  he 
fiurmised— that  it  was  made  by  the 
niece,  and  the  acceptance  of  it  is 
forced  upon  him  by  the  aunt,  who 
will  listen  to  no  refusal.  As  iron 
must  be  beaten  while  it  is  hot,  the 
clerk  is  to  start  at  once,  and  the 
oUent  pays  his  hundred  and  ten 
francs. 

As  the  week  devoted  to  the  in- 

2uiry  is  drawing  to  its  close  the 
upe  looks  in  at  the  agency  to  hear 
if  mere  is  any  news.  The  ladies  are 
not  there  on  this  occasion,  but  the 
agent  is,  and  he  takes  care  to  remind 
Imn  of  the  purse  and  the  necessity 
of  making  a  suitable  acknowledg- 
ment, which,  under  present  circum- 
stances, the  more  handsome  it  is  the 
more,  he  explains  to  the  dupe,  it 
will  be  to  his  advantage,  for  the 
niiece,  he  takes  care  to  inform  him, 
will  in  all  likelihood  succeed  to  her 
aunt's  fortune.  With  the  view  of 
not  being  thought  mean,  the  dupe 
presents  the  lady  with  a  diamond 
ring  worth  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs,  the  stone  of  which,  remounted 
as  a  pin  for  the  agent,  will  serve  to 
dazzle  future  dupes. 

Usually  by  the  time  the  week 
has  elapsed  the  clerk  is  reported  to 
have  fallen  ill  in  the  country;  has 
met  with  a  sunstroke,  or  been  put 
between  damp  sheets,  according  to 
the  season  of  the  year.  His  illness 
'  lasts  four  days,  for  which  another 
eighty  francs  have  to  be  paid,  as  it 


will  look  exceedingly  mean  to  ask 
the  aunt  to  bear  her  share  of  this 
trifle.  The  dupe's  purse-strings  are, 
therefore,  again  unloosened,  though 
all  this  time  the  clerk  has  not  only 
been  perfectly  well  but  has  never 
even  quitted  Paris. 

At  length  the  client  grows  impa- 
tient, and  speaks  out;  whereupon 
the  agent  assumes  an  air  of  profound 
sadness,  and  announces  to  him,  with 
marked  emotion,  that  he  has  had  a 
narrow  escape :  that  his,  the  agent's, 
vigilance  and  foresight  have  saved 
him  from  a  great  misfortune,  for  he 
has  discovered  that  the  paternal 
parent  of  the  young  lady,  respecting 
whom  there  had  always  been  a 
mystery,  had  been  guillotined  for 
murder.  Her  own  reputation,  too, 
is  whispered  against,  and  her  pre- 
tended fortune  is  equally  doubtful. 
The  dupe,  surprised  and  horrified  at 
this  revelation,  though  regretting 
the  money  he  has  paid,  cannot  but 
congratulate  himself  that  this  is  no 
more,  and  feels  grateful  at  his  escape. 
He  has  paid  altogether  about  a 
thousand  francs.  The  game  is 
played  out  so  fiur  as  he  is  concerned, 
but  he  only  retires  to  make  way 
for  some  one  else  equally  mercenary 
and  equally  foolish. 

The  Frenchman  of  good  family, 
who  has  sown  his  wild  oats  and  got 
entangled  with  usurers,  and  who 
seeks  a  wife  to  relieve  him  of  his 
debts  and  to  open  a  new  career  for 
liim,  or  at  any  rate  to  provide  him 
a  place  by  the  fireside  where  he  can 
repose  now  that  his  turbulent  course 
has  run  itself  out,  has  no  need  of 
the  services  of  a  matrimonial  agent 
to  accomplish  the  object  of  his  de- 
sires. He  simply  betakes  himself 
to  the  family  notary  and  inquires  of 
him  whether  he  has  among  his 
clients  a  young  lady  with  a  dowry, 
of  say,  eight  hundred  thousand 
francs. 

'I  have  something  better  than 
that,'  replies  the  gentleman  in  black; 
'  I  have  a  million  and  upwards,  half 
in  land  and  half  on  mortgage/ 

'Bravo I    Where  is  the  land?' 

*  In  Normandy.' 

'Capital!  What  age  is  your 
clients 

'Between  twenty  and  four-and- 
twenty;    you    understand,    there- 


186 


Ths  Mabrimanud  Agent. 


fore,   one    is    in    no    paftienlar 
hurry.' 

*  Ho  v  abont  her  charms  ?* 

'  Y&j  pleasant,  I  assure  yon ;  very 
pleasant^ 

'Come,  out  with  it;  she  is  as  ugly 
assin?* 

*  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Her  teeth 
are  a  little  amiss,  I  admit,  bat  that 
is  alL  Besides,  what  does  it  matter, 
pretty  or  ngly  ?  it's  all  the  same  six 
months  after  marriage.' 

'You  are  right  there,  and  may 
look  upon  the  business  as  settled,  if 
you  will  guarantee  that  the  mort- 
gages are  good.' 

*  They  are  first  class  investments 
—on  property  worth  three  millions.' 

'That's  conclusive.  Tell  me, 
though,  about  her  family.' 

'Well,  this  is  not  the  brilliant 
side  of  the  affiur.  She  is  the  only 
daughter  of  a  builder,  so  that  she 
moTes  in  rather  a  low  strata  of 
society.  Her  fftther  is  of  little  im- 
portance. He  will  tell  you  how  he 
came  up  to  Paris  in  his  sabots,  and 
that  he  has  made  four  millions  by 
the  sweat  of  his  brow.  Hide  from 
him  that  you  lie  in  bed  until  eleven 
o'clock,  as  he  has  a  theory  that  every 
man  who  is  not  up  and  about  at  five 
is  a  good-for-nothing  scamp.  As  for 
the  mother,  providing  you  get  her 
boxes  to  see  the  melodramas  that  are 
the  rage,  she  will  pardon  you  every- 
thing, even  beating  her  daughter.' 

'Just  so.  This  worthy  couple 
are  of  course  flanked  by  any  num- 
ber of  relations — uncles,  aunts,  cou- 
sins, and  such  like?' 

'Egad!  yes.  However,  you  see 
them  all  on  the  day  of  the  wedding, 
and  next  day ' 

'Zounds!  next  day  I'll  show  every 
living  soul  of  them  the  door.  It  is 
not  they  who  will  trouble  me.' 

'  Not  quite  so  &st  Listen  to  me. 
You  must  be  very  careful  of  old 
uncle  Jalabert.  He  is  seventy- 
three,  asthmatic,  without  children, 
and  has  forty  thousand  francs  a 
year.  He  has  been  in  the  army, 
and  will  recount  to  you  all  the  cam- 
paigns he  has  gone  through.  Pro- 
viding you  join  in  his  admiration  of 
the  great  Napoleon,  he'll  ask  nothing 
further  of  you.  I  do  not  see,  too, 
why  you  should  not  x>ay  a  little 
court  to  aunt  Ursala,  an  elder  daugh- 


ter, and  turned  fifty-nine.  She  will 
tell  you  that  all  men  are  rascals, 
not  even  yourself  excepted:  stilly 
there  is  no  harm  in  letting  her  have 
her  say— it's  a  relief  to  h&t' 

'Thank  you  kindly  for  all  your 
hints.  I'll  devote  one  day  to  this 
mena<^erie.  But  how  do  you  pro- 
pose to  introduce  me?* 

'  That  can  be  easily  acoomplished. 
Come  and  dine  with  me  aiKl  th^i 
on  Sunday,  and  by  eleven  o^cloek 
you'll  be  betrothed.' 

'  What  you  say  is  all  very  fine, 
but  how  do  you  know  that  I  shall 
be  accepted?' 

'  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that 
score.    If  you  had  not  turned  up 
BO  opportrmely  I  should  have  written 
to  you.    The  parente  want  to  marry 
the  girl  and  stipulate  for  a  titla 
You  are  a  viscount,  and  everybody 
knows  you  go  to  Compi^gne ;  that's 
quite  suffident  to  turn  the  heaife  of 
the  entire  trading  daas  in  France.' 
'  You  know  that  I  am  in  debt?* 
'  I  have  no  doubt  of  that    What 
is  the  figure  ?* 
'  In  round  numbers  about  three 

hundred  thousand ' 

'A  mere  bi^telle.  It  is  only 
making  the  Loriols  pay  toll  on  enter- 
ing into  the  old  nobili^ — a  tax  upon 
armorial  bearings,  in  fact' 

'Ifs  underetood,  then— on  Sun- 
day next.    Good-bye.* 

On  Sunday  the  dinner  takes  place 
as  arranged,  and  everything  comes 
off  exactly  in  accordsjice  with  the 
notary's  programme. 

Such  a  purely  business  matter  is 
marriage  in  France,  and  so  tho- 
roughly is  it  underetood  that  in  this 
light  only  are  parente  accuAtomed 
to  look  at  it,  that  one  finds  a  French 
writer  jocosely  proposing  that  the 
government  should  iteelf  establish 
a  grand  matrimonial  agency,  having 
central  offices  in  Paris,  with  branches 
in  all  the  departmente  and  abroad, 
and  which  should  absorb  all  the 
existing  agencies  and  be  administered 
by  a  distinct  staff  of  ito  own,  just 
like  any  other  government  office. 
Men  distinguished  for  their  tact  and 
the  purity  of  their  morals  placed  at 
its  bead,  would,  be  suggeste,  inspire 
confidence  in  families  having  daugh- 
tere  to  marry.  Individuals  of  the 
male  sex  desirous  of  having  recourse 


The  Mairmaniud  AgenL 


18T 


to  tbe  iBtBnnediation  of  the  agency 
would  be  required  to  fdmifih  foil 
infomwtioii  respeeting  their  personal 
appearanoe>  age,  state  of  health,  and 
family  oonnectionB,  aooompaaied  by 
medical  certificates,  abstracts  of  title- 
deeds,  schedules  of  yalnables,  ex- 
tracts from  registers,  together  with 
legal  attestations  of  regnlarity  of 
life  and  moral  conduct.  The  adop- 
tion of  all  these  precautions,  the 
writer  maintains,  would  give  that 
degree  of  moral  security  to  marriage 
contracts  which  unhappily  they  lack 
at  the  present  day. 

As  the  clergy  and  the  magistracy 
are  the  two  classes  best  informed  in 
France,  and  brought  most  in  con- 
tact with  the  people  generally,  and 
as,  moreover,  they  are  public  func- 
tionaries, it  is  propoeea  that  they 
should  be  required  to  furnish  the 
administration  of  the  agency  with 
moral  portraitures  of  individuals  re- 
siding within  their  jurisdiction  who 
may  be  desiroua  of  being  inscribed 
on  the  register.  These,  together  with 
the  document  before  mentioned  as 
also  letters  from  principals  of  colleges 
at  which  these  individuals  may  have 
been  educated,  and  certificates  from 
heads  of  departments  or  employers 
under  whom  they  may  have  served, 
would  all  be  placed  in  their  par- 
ticular receptacles.  The  admirable 
centralization  which  renders  France 
an  object  of  envy  to  other  nations 
would  thereby  have  new  and  con- 
genial duties  imposed  upon  it,  re- 
assuring in  the  nighest  deg^e  to 
families  and  largely  conducive  to 
good  morals. 

A  gnuid  photographic  establish- 
ment  might  be  attached  to  the  cen- 
tral agency  and  smaller  ones  to  the 
i^^encies  in  the  depsrtments.  Fami- 
lies disposed  to  give  dowries  of  fifty 
thousand  francs  would  be  entitled 
to  inspect  two  ordinary  photographs 
of  candidates  inscribed  on  the  regis- 
ters, one  seated,  the  other  standing, 
one  a  front  view,  the  other  in  pro- 
file. When  the  dowry  mounts  up 
to  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  por- 
traits might  be  demanded  one-sixth 
of  the  natural  size;  when  to  two 
hundred  thousand  francs,  one-fourth 
life  size,  with  an  equestrian  portrait 
in  addition.  A  dowry  of  two  huu" 
deed  and  fifty  thousand  francs  would 


be  entitled  to  special  photographs 
of  the  cranium,  to  show  the  state 
of  preservation  of  the  hair,  and  of 
the  teeth  to  attest  the  condition  of 
the  molars  and  incisors.  If  re- 
quired, photographs  of  both  feet  and 
hands  would  also  have  to  be  fur- 
nished to  demonstrate  that  theso 
are  of  proper  aristocratic  dimen- 
sions. Larger  dowries  nnght  be 
entitled  to  demand  portraits  ai  can- 
didates under  a  variety  of  speeial 
aspects,  so  as  to  guaid  against  sub- 
sequent disillusions,  such  as  in  full 
evening  dress  with  silk  stockings 
and  smalls,  in  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  and  even  in  nightcap,  or 
representing  the  individual  under- 
gomg  the  painful  operation  of 
shaving  himself.  One  can  conceive 
the  high  position  that  photography 
would  thus  attain  to ;  it  would,  in 
fact,  become  elevated  into  a  social 
institution  of  the  utmost  importance, 
and  would  be  the  means  of  sparing 
alike  principals  and  their  families 
from  numerous  cruel  deceptions. 

Every  proposal  inscribed  on  the 
books  of  the  agency  would  require 
to  be  accompanied  by  a  demand 
specifying  the  amount  of  fortune 
and  the  precise  kind  of  social  posi- 
tion which  the  party  making  it 
aspires  to.  These  would  be  duly 
classified,  and  every  week  a  printed 
list,  dividing  them  into  categories, 
would  be  posted  up  at  the  Bourse, 
enabling  every  one  to  see  at  a  glance, 
as  it  were,  the  state  of  the  matri- 
monial market,  how  many  magis- 
trates and  other  functionaries,  mili- 
tary and  naval  officers,  professional 
men,  merchante,  tradesmen,  and 
employes  of  every  description,  there 
were  in  search  of  wives,  together 
with  their  respective  incomes  and 
the  dowries  they  ai»pired  to,  as  also 
the  number  and  value  of  the  dowries 
that  were  in  the  market.  In  due 
course  a  market  price  would  be 
established,  subject,  however,  to 
fiuctuations  like  all  other  commo- 
dities when  supply  is  in  excess  or 
falls  short  of  the  demand.  If,  for 
instance,  magistrates  should  happen 
to  be  in  great  request,  their  valuo 
would  rise,  and  they  would  natu- 
ral ly  aspire  to  larger  dowries.  Poli- 
tical and  social  evente  would  have 
their  effect  upon  this  market  as 


188 


the  PiceaiiOg  Papen. 


upon  all  others.  A  threatened  war 
would  cause  military  men  to  fall 
jnst  as  a  peace  with  Oochin-china 
would  send  np  East  India  mer- 
chants, and  in  all  probability  im- 
prove the  quotations  of  naval  officers. 
A  low  state  of  the  public  health 
would  raise  the  rate  of  doctors  in 
the  same  way  that  a  new  cattle- 
plague  would  depress  the  agricul- 
tarists.  Alterations  in  the  press 
laws  would  necessarily  elevate  or 
bwer  journalists  according  as  these 


were  either  mfld  or  stringent  Every 
one,  on  opening  his  newspaper  of  a 
morning,  would  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  his  precise  quotation 
in  the  matrimonial  market,  and  from 
carefully  studying  the  fluctuations, 
would  be  enabled  to  choose  the  par- 
ticular moment  when  his  value  was 
at  what  he  conceived  to  be  its  highest 
point,  and  could  then  hasten  to  sign 
the  marriage  contract  with  the  object 
of— let  us  hope— his  future  affec- 
tions. 


THE  PICCADILLY  PAPEES. 
By  a  Pebipatktic. 


8LEEPLE8BHI83  AND  SLEEP. 


AMONG  the  minor  miseries  of 
human  life,  where,  however,  the 
misery  may  come  to  the  maximum 
point  of  misery,  is  that  most  dis- 
tressing complaint  of  Insomnia, 
In  these  days  of  highly-strung  ener- 
gies and  rapid  living  sleeplessness 
is  becoming  more  and  more  pre- 
valent among  us,  a  serious  thing  in 
itself  and  serious  as  a  symptom. 
The  subject  is  obscure  and  diffi- 
cult as  it  is  important  and  interest- 
ing; a  subject  partly  physical  and 
pifftly  metaphysical,  in  which  mind 
and  matter,  morals  and  medicine,  are 
singularly  intermingled.  'Half  our 
days  we  pass  in  the  shadow  of  the 
earth,'  says  8ir  Thomas  Browne, 
'  and  the  burthen  of  death  extracteth 
a  third  part  of  our  lives.'  Many 
of  my  readers  will  recollect  Warton*s 
Latin  epigram  on  Sleep.  I  can- 
not lay  my  hand  on  it  just  now, 
but  I  can  give  my  own  version  of 
it:— 

'  Ob«  gentle  sleep,  thine  Inflnence  give. 
Aud  thoagh  like  death  drew  nigh ; 
Living,  behold  we  do  not  live; 
And  dying,  do  not  die.' 

'  Blessed  is  the  man,'  says  Sancho 
Panza,  'who  invented  sleep;'  but 
although  Sancho  Panza  would  pro- 
bably admit  that  this  invention  was 
made  in  a  very  early  period  of  the 
history  of  the  human  race,  it  is  re- 
markable that  there  is  no  subject 
on  which  opinions  are  so  entirely 


unsettled  as  on  the  subject  of  sleep, 
authors  on  the  subject,  within  such 
wide  limits  as  indicated  by  such 
authors  as  Aristotle  and  Lord 
Brougliam,  have  failed  to  unfold  to 
ns  the  mystery;  and,  if  I  may  be 
forgiven  the  remark,  I  am  afraid 
that  those  who  suffer  from  sleep- 
lessness must  fall  back  on  an  em- 
piric mode  of  treatment. 

I  sympathize  intensely  with  the 
sleepless.  It  is  all  very  well  to  be 
moralizing  and  practical,  and  to 
say  that  if  we  cannot  sleep  we  had 
better  lie  awake  and  think,  or  strike 
a  light  and  read  or  write.  I  have  at 
least  one  most  interesting  letter  from 
a  dear  fellow— now  gone  over  to  the 
majority— who  sajs  he  could  not 
sleep,  and  so  has  got  up  to  write  to 
me.  As  a  rule  I  do  not  approve 
of  people  lying  in  bed  'thinking,' 
as  they  are  pleased  to  term  it ;  they 
do  not  think,  they  only  think  they 
think  — which  is  a  very  different 
matter.  The  habit  of  lying  in  bed 
of  a  morning  'thinking'  after  it  is 
time  to  get  up  is  hardly  better  than 
dram-drinking.  The  waking  state 
or  the  sleeping  state  are  tolerable 
enough,  but  the  intermediate  state, 
neither  waking  nor  sleeping,  is 
intolerable.  If  you  knew  you 
could  not  sleep  it  would  be  easy 
enough  to  strike  a  light  and  read ; 
but  you  refrain  from  doing  so 
through  the   delusive  hope   that 


The  Piccadilly  Pajpers. 


189 


yon  have  a  real  cbanoe,  which  yoa 
must  not  mar,  of  presently  going  to 
sleep.  Of  coarse  if  you  are  yery 
anziona  to  go  to  sleep  this  yery 
anxiety  is  quite  sufficient  to  pre- 
yent  your  doing  so.  I  know  per- 
sons who  can  neyer  count  on  more 
than  two  hoars'  Bleef)  at  a  time, 
and  the  amount  of  time  is  abso- 
lutely astounding  during  which 
people  are  absolutely  sleepless  in 
cases  of  mania  or  feyer.  Nature, 
howeyer,  is  very  wonderful  in  her 
compensations,  and  adapts  herself 
most  curiously  to  all  changes  in  the 
constitution.  As  a  rule,  too,  opiates 
can  insure; sleep  when  absolutely 
necessary.  But  opiates  haye  their 
limits,  which  are  speedily  reached. 
Sir  William  Hamilton  would  take 
fiye  hundred  drops  of  laudanum 
without  being  able  to  detect  hardly 
the  slightest  effect  I  remember 
also  rather  a  distinguished  literary 
man  on  whom  anodynes  were  as 
powerless  us  water.  Most  weari- 
some of  all  weariful  feelings  is  that 
of  counting  the  hours  of  the  clock 
during  the  sleepless  hours  in  which 
existence  is  a  mere  burden  and 
drug. 

It  is  said,  with  eyery  appearance 
of  truth,  though  the  proof  is  not 
conclusiye,  that  sleep  is  due  to  a 
diminished  supply  of  arterial  blood 
in  the  head.  The  brain  matter 
becomes  unable  to  undergo  the 
changes  through  which  the  mind 
makes  its  manifestations.  Physi- 
ologists are  agreed  that  towards 
eyening  or  after  a  certain  number 
of  hours  of  work  the  inyoluntary 
organs,  the  heart  and  lungs,  lose 
their  wonted  actiyity  and  suffer  a 
periodical  diminution  of  action. 
Blumeubach  describes  the  case  of 
a  patient  trepanned  in  whom  the 
brain  was  obi^yed  to  sink  during 
sleep  and  enlarge  on  waking,  ob- 
yiously  arising  from  the  circulation 
being  diminished  in  the*  former 
state  and  increased  in  the  latter. 
'  Arterial  blood  alone  can  cause  the 
waste  of  the  brain,  for  yenous  blood 
has  already  parted  with  its  oxygen 
to  the  materials  met  with  in  its 
course.  Matter  in  a  state  of  inertia 
cannot  manifest  the  existence  of  a 
power.  Motion  alone  shows  that 
some  power  is  in  operation.    If  the 


portion  of  matter  used  as  the  organ 
of  manifestation  be  placed  in  such 
a  condition  as  to  render  that  mani- 
festation impossible  there  is  no 
eyidence  to  the  world  that  power 
was  exerted.'  It  was  an  old  error 
among  physiologists,  that  there  was 
more  blood,  or  at  least  as  much, 
during  sleep  as  in  wakefulness; 
but  this  was  disproyed  by  Blumen- 
bach,  and  still  more  conyincingly 
by  a  philosopher  who  made  one  of 
the  cruel  though  striking  experi- 
ments with  which  medical  science 
abounds,  and  which  finds  its  horrid 
culmination  in  yiyisection.  He 
cut  away  part  of  the  skull  of  an 
animal,  and  cemented  in  its  place 
a  piece  of  glass,  through  which  he 
could  obserye  the  brain  in  its  dif- 
ferent states.  This  experiment  has 
been  repeated  in  Germany,  in  Eng- 
land, and  in  America  with  like 
results.  In  the  waking  state  the 
brain  is  larger  than  it  is  during 
sleep ;  while  in  the  latter  condition 
it  becomes  pale  and  bloodless.  If 
the  animal  be  disturbed  by  dreams 
a  blush  suffuses  parts  of  the  brain. 
The  eye,  which  may  be  looked 
upon  as  an  exposed  part  of  the 
brain,  acts  in  a  similar  way ;  for  it 
has  been  shown  that  the  optic  disc 
is  whiter,  the  arteries  smaller,  and 
the  yeins  larger  in  sleep  than  in  a 
waking  state. 

The  two  great  objects  of  sleep 
are,  first,  the  restoration  of  wasted 
organs;  and,  secondly,  the  storing 
up  of  force.  It  is  eyident  that  any 
material  disturbance  or  defeat  of 
these  two  great  objects  is  ruinous, 
and  within  a  yery  short  distance 
of  a  certain  line  becomes  fatal.  It 
is  wonderful,  howeyer,  in  how 
many  instances  at  what  a  remote 
point  Nature  begins  to  draw  this 
line  of  destiny.  During  sleep  force 
is  stored  up  in  the  body  in  a  re- 
markable manner,  aa  has  been 
shown  by  a  series  of  interesting 
experiments.  The  King  of  Bayaria 
erected  a  chamber,  supplied  with 
eyery  appliance  for  measuring 
the  air  which  enters  it  and  for 
ascertaining  the  composition  of  the 
air  that  passes  from  it.  This 
chamber  is  sufficiently  large  to 
enable  persons  to  liye  comfortably 
in  it  daring  the  time  that  they  arc 


190 


7%e  PieeadSfy  Pcs^ef. 


made  the  salijeelB  of  experuneniB. 
Among  other  lemarlatble  resntts 
which  have  flowed  fiom  the  en- 
lightened libenlify  of  the  BaTariui 
king  we  have  a  series  of  experi- 
ments made  on  Tadoas  indifidnala 
during  their  waking  and  sleeping 
state,  from  which  many  interesting 
results  have  been  derived,  set  forth 
by  scientific  jonmals,  and  by  a 
fierial  nnsorpafised  in  its  scientific 
and  intellectnal  character,  the 
'  North  British  Beview.' 

I  cannot,  however,  agree  with 
the  reviewer  in  his  minatory  and 
disrespectful  language  towards  that 
large,  most  respectable,  and  most 
solvent  section  of  the  BritLsh  public 
that  habitually  indulges  in  an  after- 
dinner  nap.  '  The  post -prandial 
sleeper  draws  his  chair  to  the  fiie, 
in  oraer  that  his  nap  may  be  undis- 
turbed. There  are  two  physio- 
logical reasons  for  this  act  Less 
oxygen  is  entering  his  body  to  bum 
the  food,  and  he  feels  cold;  but 
this  cold  would  excite  the  respira- 
tory corgans  to  increased  activity 
and  disturb  his  contemplated  en- 
joyment An  after-dinner  sleeper 
temporarily  resembles  the  perma- 
nent condition  of  a  pig  fattened  for 
tiie  butcher.  In  its  case  fat  accu- 
mulated round  the  viscera  pushes 
up  the  diaphragm  against  the  lungs, 
and  compels  them  to  play  in  a  con- 
iracted  space.  When  the  animal 
furthw  diifitends  its  stomach  with 
food  it  gives  a  few  grunts  as  an 
inefiectual  attempt  at  a  more  active 
respiration,  and  is  in  a  deep  sleep 
in  a  few  minutes.  Obese  men, 
from  a  similar  cause,  are  also  prone 
to  sleep.'  I  call  this  an  unkind 
and  even  an  unfeeling  remark. 
Would  it  not  also  be  simpler 
and  more  correct  to  say  that  the 
blood  is  driven  from  the  surface 
to  the  centre  to  aid  digestion? 
Neither  shall  I  be  deterred  by  the 
great  authority  of  the  reviewer 
from  counselling  people  to  enjoy 
their  customary  siesta.  If  Nature 
makes  a  man  sleepy  I  think  that 
she  designs  that  a  man  should  go 
to  sleep.  She  is  quite  as  philo- 
sophical as  any  of  the  philosophers. 
There  is  a  bastard  sort  of  sleep, 
a  condition  of  ooma,  consequent 
on   repletion,  which  ought  to  be 


aToided;  and  moderatkm,  not  an 
immoderate  moderation,  in  diet 
ahould  be  preserved.  After  din- 
ner also  some  employment  of  the 
gentlest  kind  may  be  wisely  taken 
in  hand— a  glance  at  a  newspaper 
or  magazine,  the  writing  of  some 
trifling  notes,  a  stroll  in  the 
garden,  and  a  slight  dessert, 
where  dessert  is  always  '  best 
taken,  off  the  fruit  trees.  Then 
take  a  nap,  after  thus  idly  dallying 
with  the  charms  of  leisure.  I  be- 
lieve tiiat  a  brief  nap  of  this  sort  is 
invariably  attended  vrith  salntaxy 
efieot  It  has  always  been  noted  that 
to  close  the  eyes  even  for  a  Ibw 
minutes  in  sleep  is  a  wonderful  relief 
to  the  brain.  Some  men  have  fttUen 
asleep  on  horseback,  and  otbexs  ean 
even  sleep  while  walking,  besideB 
the  unfortunate  somnambulists.  I 
know  two  men  who  were  walking 
along  a  country  road  on  a  dark 
night  A.  clutched  B.'6  arm  tightly 
and  deliberately  walked  with  olesed 
eyes.  Some  tune  afterwards  B. 
said, '  I  hope.  A.,  you  are  vralking 
Tery  carefully,  for  I  have  kept 
my  eyes  closed  for  tibe  last  half- 
hour.'  Fortunately  the  two  Go- 
thamites  had  contrived  to  keep 
clear  of  the  ditches. 

All  kinds  of  remedies  have  been 
suggested  for  sleeple6sneB8--optum, 
henbane,  chlorodyne,  strychnia, 
pmssic  acid,  aconite,  &c.  A  lady 
who  had  suffered  fearfully  this  way, 
wrote  to  me  some  time  ago  to  say 
that  she  had  derived  great  benefit 
from  sleeping  with  her  head  to  the 
north.  This  seems  to  be  absurd, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  our  {ffesent 
limited  knowledge  of  electricity 
which  appears  to  connt^aanoe  it. 
I  only  give  it  as  an  observed  &ct 
in  this  particular  instance.  Another 
Buffmer  tells  me  that  great  benefit 
has  been  derived  from  taking  a  glass 
of  sherry  and  a  sandwich  immedi- 
ately before  going  to  bed.  The 
reason  of  this  is  perfectly  intelli- 
gible. According  to  the  late  modem 
dinner  hour  the  somnolent  effect  of 
food  has  passed  off,  and  the  excitant 
effect  has  set  in  just  about  bedtime. 
To  those  who  suffer  this  vray  I 
would  strongly  recommend  the 
canon  pursued  l^the  great  states- 
man, Mr.  Windham,  as  described 


a%e  P»oodU%  Poftm. 


191 


by  idm  m  the  '  Diary '  pnblisbed  a 
few  years  aga  He  most  acoarately 
noted  uid  leeorded  erery  pnrtionlar 
tbat  Bttgfat  bear  any  idation  to  bis 
wast  of  sleep,  aaid  justifies  his  ap- 
pai8Qt]y  trivial  and  wnnterestrng 
entries  by  the  great  importanoe  of 
the  subject  By  ibis  method  a  man 
may  be  able  to  find  ont  for  himself 
the  right  diagnosis  and  the  right 
treatment  A  fev  general  particn- 
lars  shooid  be  noted.  The  nse  of 
opiates,  except  on  ittre  occasions  or 
in  special  instances,  shonld  be 
ayoided.  The  oorrect  dietaiy  sys- 
tem shonld  be  discovered  and  re- 
oeive  carefnl  adherence.  The  sim- 
plest and  best  remedies  are  abun- 
dance of  exercise  and  air.  What  a 
wonderfol  compensation  for  many 
losses  is  that  sound,  dreamless,  in- 
vigorating sleep  which  the  labourer 
almost  invariably  enjoys!  A  balance 
between  mental  and  bodily  exertion 
ought  to  be  maintained.  Scholars 
and  thinkers  may  often  sleep  badly, 
but  I  know,  too,  clever  lazy  fellows, 
who,  with  ploriy  of  fresh  air,  are 
unable  to  sleep,  singly  because 
they  have,  not  given  their  brains 
sufficient  exercise.  Dreaming  is  an 
intensely  interesting  portion  of  the 
subject  It  will  be  recollected  that 
Ooleridge  wrote  down  his  fine  poem 
of  '£ubla  Ehan'  from  his  recollec- 
tion of  what  he  had  composed  in  a 
dream — a  most  peculiar  psycho- 
logical fact.  I  myself  remember 
composing  a  few  Latin  verses  in  a 
dream,  which  I  was  able  to  recal  on 
waking,  but  to  my  great  disgust, 
they  were  very  feeble  lines,  and 
contained  one  or  more  false  quan- 
tities. Scientifically  speaking,  it 
appears  probable  that  dreaming  is 
nothing  more  than  a  wakefulness  of 
one  portion  of  a  nervous  centre, 
while  the  other  portions  and  the 
other  centres  are  in  a  state  of  sleep. 
Thus,  through  the  transformation  of 
one  region  of  brain  substance,  par- 
ticular feelings  and  certain  orders 
of  ideas  may  be  called  into  active 
life,  while  all  remaining  feelings  and 
ideas  are  asleep,  and  so  no  process 
of  comparison  or  reflection  can  be 
exercised  by  tiiat  part  of  the  brain 
which  is  sleeping  over  that  which  is 
wakeful.  The  subject,  however,  is 
too  large  for  discussion  now.    I  will 


only  add  &at  moral  cansiderations 
are  by  no  means  wanting  in  snob  a 
subject,  and  that  there  are  no 
better  disposing  agencies  towards 
light,  gentie,  healthful  idumbers 
^n  simple  tastes,  a  purified  oon- 
8cienoe,.and  a  balanced  harmonicms 
life. 

THE  PALKBTINE  EXFLOHATION  FUND. 

An  exhibition  has  been  opened 
this  season  in  the  Dudley  Gallery  of 
the  Egyptian  Hall  ivhich  has  a 
unique  position  of  its  own.  It  con- 
si^  of  a  very  large  number  of  arti- 
cles which  have  been  collected 
together  by  the  managers  of  the 
Palestine  Exploration  Fund.  The 
catalogue,  as  catalogues  often  are, 
is  an  extremely  interesting  publica- 
tion, and  brings  together  at  one 
view  all  tbat  vast  field  that  can 
be  occupied  by  the  mvestigation 
of  European  Christians.  It  mainly 
consists  of  a  list  of  an  inomense 
number  of  photographs  taken  in 
the  Hdy  lioid  for  this  Society. 
The  Exhibition  princqMdly  consiBts 
of  pottery,  glass,  oarvings,  jkc,  which 
Lieutenant  Wazfen  has  found  in  the 
shafts.  His  work  is  much  higher 
than  to  seek  illustrations  of  Jewish 
art,  but  this  also  is  one  of  the  sub- 
sidiary purposes  which  are  accom- 
plished, and  he  wisely  sends  home 
all  that  the  spades  of  the  fellabin 
turn  up.  It  is  not  very  much  after 
all,  but  there  is  a  charm  of  associa- 
tion about  them,  which,  to  most 
minds,  will  be  very  considerable. 
We  must,  however,  forewarn  our 
readers,  whom  wo  would  willingly 
send  to  this  interesting  collection, 
that  the  subject  is  rather  difficult, 
and  has  a  terminology  belonging  to 
it  which  cannot  be  niastered  without 
an  effort.  It  is  remarkable  that 
amid  all  the  travel  that  has  been 
extended  on  the  Holy  Land,  and  all 
the  poetry,  sentiment,  and  religion 
that  has  been  lavished  there,  there 
has  rarely  ever  been  any  simple 
practical  desire  for  real  knowledge 
on  the  subject  until  the  day  of  the 
recent  American  traveller.  Dr.  Bobin- 
son.  We  will  yenture  to  believe 
that  a  flood  of  light  will  ere  long  be 
thrown  upon  sacred  history,  and 
this  effort  is  a  veritable  crusade  in 


192 


ne  PxeeadVUy  Papen. 


the  canse  of  leligion  and  reyelation, 
giving  to  religion  a  scientific  cha- 
racter and  to  sdonee  a  religions 
object. 

Of  all  those  reUgions  meetings 
which  are  held  in  London  in  the 
season,  perhaps  there  was  none  of 
greater  interest  than  the  meeting  on 
Midsummer  Day  on  behalf  of  the 
Palestine  Exploration  Fund.  It 
might  certainly  be  called  the  most 
intelleotnal  of  the  great  religions 
gatherings,  including  a  chairman  of 
such  eloquence  and  culture  as  Arch- 
bishop Tnomson,  and  such  speakers 
as  Mr.  Deutsch,  of  the  British  Mu- 
seum, Professor  Owen,  'Bob  Boy' 
himself,  t.  e,,  Mr.  Macgregor,  and 
Mr.  Grove  was  present,  one  of  the 
most  conscientious  and  able  littira» 
teurs  of  the  day.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  hope  that  Lieutenant  Warren's 
exertions  will  enable  us  to  construct 
anew  and  aright  the  map  of  ancient 
Jerusalem.  Mr.  Macgregor  pointed 
out  the  size  and  shape  of  the  city  of 
Jerusalem,  by  descnbing  where  its 
chief  places  would  stand  if  the  city 
were  planted  in  London.  He  con- 
siderea  that  the  dty  could  be  placed 
in  Hyde  Park  or  in  a  slightly  larger 
space.  Mr.  Deutsch  said,  that 
though  we  ought  not  disooyer  the 
golden  throne  of  Solomon,  with  its 
lions,  its  eagles,  and  all  its  mag- 
nificent array,  yet  things  of  great 


importance  had  been  bronght  ta 
light  so  far  as  we  had  gone.  Some 
important  discoyeries  were  made  by 
Mr.  Deutsch  himself  when  he  found 
marks  on  the  great  wall  of  the  Haram 
es-Shereef  exactly  similar  or  rather 
identical  with  those  of  absolutely 
undoubted  antique  Phoenician  struc- 
tures in  Syria.  The  exploration  is 
exciting  deep  interest  all  oyer  the 
Christian  world,  and  yet  it  seems 
that  there  is  much  difficulty  in  rais- 
ing the  modest  sum  of  fiye  thousand 
a-year  necessary  to  carry  on  the 
work.  We  hear  that  some  of  the 
shafts  are  stopped  for  want  of  funds, 
at  the  very  moment  when  we  are 
approaching  the  brink  of  the  dis- 
covery of  most  important  problems. 
There  is  possibly  a  danger  that 
some  country  less  rich  than  Eng- 
land may  taJce  the  honour  of  the 
work  from  our  hands,  or  that  we 
may  lose  the  facilities  of  explora- 
tion which  we  now  enjoy.  Dr. 
Thomson  made  a  happy  quotation 
from  the  writings  of  a  Spanish  Jew 
of  the  twelfth  century, '  Sion,  Crown 
of  Beauty  I  remember  the  tender 
love  of  tby  children  whom  thy  hap- 
piness filled  with  joy  and  thy  fall 
with  mourning.'  And  on  such  a 
feeling  of  love  towards  God-beloved 
Jerusalem  must  rest  any  hope  of  the 
successful  progress  of  the  Palestine 
Exploration  Fund. 


/ 


I 


1 


-^..>,^K, 


\;// 


'4"§i^ 


y  ^  r  /• 


',  ^  ^ 


O 

STUDIES    FROM    LIFE    AT    THE    COUUT    OP    ST.    JAMES'S. 
^  H.R.  n.  Princess   Beatbice. 

B.  \\ih  Aprii,  1857. 
Drawn  by  the  late  George  H.  Thomas.    Engraved  by  William  L.  Thomas. 


«l 


m 


HCASTLES     FlUEXOLl*     JVTTI3NT10V 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


SEPTEMBER,    1869. 


KIKA  AT  TBS  OORAGB  VIXDOW^— See  *  M.  OF  K/ 


MR  HARDCASTLE'S  FRIENDLY  ATTENTIONS,  AND 
WHAT  CAME  OF  THEM. 


CHAPTER  L 

BEWILDERMENT  AT  BBIGHTON. 


*  TF  the  gentleman  who  found  the 
X  lady's  glove  at  the  ball  of  the 
— th  Dragoon  Qnards  at  Brighton 
on  Wednesday  last  will  be  at  the 
Zoological  Gardens  in  London  on 
Monday  next,  he  may  hear  of  some- 
thing to  his  advantage.' 
TOL.  XVI.— NO.  xcm. 


The  '  Southdown  Reporter  and 
Devil's  Dyke  Free  Press/  in  which 
the  above  advertisement  was  con- 
tained, fell  from  the  hands  of  a 
gentleman  who  was  reading  that 
enterprising  print  in  the  coffee- 
room  of  an  hotel  in  the  town  first 
o 


19i 


Mr,  Hardcasde'a  Friendly  Aitenlians^ 


referred  to— the  Sybarite  Hotel, 
facing  the  sea.  I  suppose  it  was 
the  fulyertisement  that  caused  the 
surprise,  not  to  say  emotion,  which 
eviaently  possessed  him.  It  oonld 
not  be  the  attack  upon  the  Mayor, 
nor  the  denunciation  of  the  Town 
Council,  nor  the  exposure  of  the 
Gas  Company,  nor  the  oleyer  article 
upon  the  dearth  of  local  amuse- 
ments, nor  the  pleasant  reference  to 
'Cor  Autumn  Yisifeois,'  nor  the 
eulogistic  review  of '  Cur  talented 
fellow -townsman's'  Tolume  of 
poems,  nor  even  the  fiMsetions  let- 
ters about  ladies'  bomwls  and  high- 
heeled  boots.  Tes,  ft  mnst  h&ye 
been  the  adyertisemail 

There  is  one  thing  that  a  man  ib 
sure  to  do  when  an  aononnoemeiit 
in  a  newspaper  ezeroinB  upon  him 
suoh  an  effect  that  be  drops  the 
newspaper  upon  tfara  floor.  The 
odds  are  at  least  Lraafeard  Street  to 
a  C9iina  orange  tint  he  pficks  the 
newspaper  up  and  leads  the  an- 
nouncement again,  nie  gentleman 
in  qaBBtaxm  adopted  lius  inevitable 
oouzse  of  aotian;  and  while  he  is 
engaged  in  mastering  the  interest- 
ing paragraph,  and  making  his  re- 
flections thereupon,  I  will  tell  you 
who  he  was  and  all  I  knew  about 
him  up  to  this  period  of  his  caraec. 

You  could  see  for  yourself,  as  he 
sat  in  the  bow-window  in  the  twi- 
light, with  the  broad  sheet  spread 
before  him,  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man, in  the  oonyentional  sense  of 
the  term;  that  he  was  a  well-made, 
manly-looking  fellow  of  unmis- 
takably military  cut,  with  a  lei- 
surely expression  of  countenance 
suggestive  of  the  fact  that  he  need 
be  in  no  hurry  to  assert  his  good 
looks,  as  they  were  sufficient  to  assert 
themselves;  and  if  he  kept  curling 
that  long  tawny  moustache  round 
his  thumb  and  finger  you  might  be 
sure  that  it  was  an  action  caused 
by  nervous  anxiety  rather  than  by 
any  thought  of  improving  that 
appendage.  If  you  guessed  his 
age  to  be  somewhere  between 
twenty  and  thirty  you  would  not 
be  mistaken;  and  if  you  made  a 
bet  that  he  was  the  Hon.  Harry 
Doncaster,  brother  to  Lord  St. 
Leger,  and  a  captain  of  light  dra- 
goons  on  leave  from   India,  you 


would  win  your   bet   beyond  all 
chance  of  dispute. 

But  you  would  never  suppose, 
unless  you  happened  to  know,  what 
a  troubled  life  Harry  Doncaster  was 
leading.  Money  had  never  been 
the  sfapong  point  of  his  £Buaiily,  at 
least  during  the  last  two  genera- 
tions. His  brother  the  Viscount 
had  not  much,  and  what  he  had  he 
wanted — for  viscounts  must  have 
money,  of  course,  oome  what  may. 
His  family  set  Hatxy  up  in  the 
cavalry — he  took  a  great  deal  of 
setting  up,  by  the  way,  though  he 
^  Im  promotion  by  luck— and'he 
mheritel  tome  priyate  means  horn 
his  mothsE.  But  in  reference  to 
the  latter  hb  made  the  not  un- 
common nastake  of  confounding 
capital  wiBi  income;  and  the  ori' 
gmal  sun,  after  several  abortive 
settiements  in  life,  refused  at  last 
to  be  made  the  sport  of  an  unscrupu- 
lous chequebook,  and  disappeared 
indignantiy  below  the  financial  ho- 
rizon. After  tin  pecuniary  crisis 
Hairy  Doncaster,  as  far  as  any 
additions  to  his  pity  were  concerned, 
WIS  supported,  like  the  faos^tttals, 
by  voluntary  contributions.  But 
the  Yoluntary  system  was  no  sub- 
stitute for  an  establishment  in  his 
ease;  and  m  a  tharoug^  state  of 
disendowment,  without  edifices, 
glebeil,  or  any  consolation  of  the 
kind,  he  found  himself  in  a  state 
which  he  described  as  '  dependent 
on  the  generosity  of  my  &mily, 
who  refuse  to  give  me  anything.' 
Then  he  began  to  borrow,  which 
was  crisis  the  second  in  his  career. 
He  began  by  merely  overdrawing 
with  his  agents;  and  Cox,  it  must 
be  said  for  that  obli^g  firm,  al- 
lowed him  a  considerable  fling. 
But  there  is  a  point  when  even  Cox 
loses  patience;  and  Harry  Don- 
caster, when  he  found  his  pay 
looking  very  small  in  perspective, 
compsLred  with  the  massive  fore- 
ground of  liability,  did  not  relish 
the  effect  of  the  picture,  and 
squared  up  vrith  Cox  by  a  great 
convulsive  effort  It  was  then  that 
he  took  to  borrowing  in  a  direct 
manner,  and  came  to  crisis  the 
second,  as  I  have  said.  Now  crisis 
the  second  would  not  much  matter ; 
but  it  is  very  apt  to  lead  to  crisis 


and  what  came  (f  ihem. 


196 


the  fhird,  when  borrowing  becomes 
80  difficult  as  to  approach  the  con- 
fines of  impossibility.  And  to  this 
gloomy  boundary,  I  regret  to  say, 
Harry  Doncasier  had  arrived  at  the 
period  in  question.  He  did  not 
Know,  as  he  declared,  how  to  turn 
himself  round,  and  performed  the 
process  only,  like  the  scorpion  girt 
by  financial  fire,  the  circle  narrow- 
ing with  every  sucoessiYe  sun.  He 
began  serious  borrowing  in  India — 
that  gorgeous  land  which  has  the 
&tal  gift  of  credit  in  a  bewildering 
degree— and  where  the  traO  of  the 
serpent  (of  high  interest^  extends 
from  the  rice-fields  of  Bengal  to 
the  rose-gardens  of  Oashmere. 
He  had  a  few  debts  in  England  at 
the  time.  He  thought  they  would 
not  matter;  but  they  did.  And  he 
soon  found  that  the  process  which 
follows  non-payment  in  the  one 
country  is  much  the  Same  as  the 
process  which  follows  non-payment 
m  the  other-  the  prinoipcu  differ- 
ence being  that  in  India  you  are 
arrested  by  a  bailiff  in  a  looser  pair 
of  trousers.  On  coming  home  upon 
leave  he  made  another  discovery — 
that  Eastern  impecuniosiiy  is  a 
tree  of  hardy  growth,  and  will  bear 
transplanting  to  the  West  with 
oonsidorable  success.  It  was  with 
a  profound  conviction  of  this  im- 
portant truth  that  he  began  serious 
borrowing  in  his  native  land;  and 
for  a  time  his  native  land  izeated 
him  with  her  well-known  liberality 
in  the  way  of  advances,  and  equally 
well-known  consideration  witii  re- 
gard to  their  return.  But  there 
is  a  time  for  all  things,  'and  that 
for  payment  comes  with  remarkable 
punctuality,  and  when  it  really 
means  business  is  apt  to  be  a  diffi- 
cult customer.  This  is  just  what 
Harry  Doncaster  is  beginning  to 
discover  when  we  find  him  at 
the  Brighton  hotel  conning  over 
the  advertisement  He  has  ex- 
hausted worlds  of  leave,  and  will 
have  to  imagine  new  if  he  wants 
much  more  of  it.  But  he  dares  not 
return  to  his  regiment  under  pre- 
sent circumstances,  and  remaining 
in  England  seems  equally  out  of 
the  question.  He  has  an  idea  that 
the  Ulterior  of  Africa  would  be  a 
proper  part  of  the  world  for  his 


future  sojourn;  but  a  leceni;  event 
has  made  him  reluctant  to  turn  his 
back  upon  the  land  of  his  youtii ; 
and  the  latter  feeling,  I  fancy,  has 
some  connection  with  the  advertise- 
ment. 

Were  I  to  follow  the  example  of 
many  miiEfguided  novelists  I  should 
represent  Harry  Doncaster,  at  ^is 
juncture,  as  soliloquizing  aloud, 
and  giving  a  snmmaiy  of  his  past 
life  and  present  prospects,  witn  a 
statement  of  the  nature  of  the 
question  which  occupies  his  atten- 
tion, for  the  benefit  of  anybody  who 
might  happen  to  be  listening.  But 
people  never  do  this  in  real  life ; 
and,  confining  myself  to  facts,  I 
shall  simply  mention  that  a  few 
muttered  words  escape  him  to  this 
effect,^ 

'Must  be  meant  for  me— will 
risk  iiH-Hcan't  come  to  any  grief  on 
a  Sunday.' 

And  with  the  newspaper  still  in 
his  hand  he  rises,  with  the  intention 
of  making  for  the  fireplace,  by  the 
side  of  which  is  the  only  bell- 
handle  he  happens  to  call  to  mind, 
though  there  are  half  a  dozen  about 
the  room.  But  he  pauses  in  the 
act,  for  there  is  a  stranger  sitting 
with  his  back  to  the  bell-handle, 
finishing  his  dinner  'in  a  leisurely 
manner;  and  it  is  evident  that 
Harry  Doncaster  cannot  get  to  the 
bell  without  disturbing  the  stranger. 
The  two  have  been  taking  their 
respective  repasts  a  few  paces  apart 
Each  has  been  well  aware  of  the  . 
presence  of  the  other,  but  each  has 
Ignored  the  other's  existence,  as  in 
conventional  duly  bound  — a  very 
proper  arrangement,  by  the  way,  in 
a  public  room,  which  ought  to  be 
a  private  room  to  anybody  who 
pleases  to  make  it  so. 

Having  an  object  in  so  doing, 
Harry  Doncaster  considers  himself 
warranted  in  addressing  the  stranger, 
which  he  does  by  asking  him  to  ring 
thebeU. 

There  are  various  ways  of  asking 
a  man  to  ring  a  bell,  and  Harry's, 
upon  this  occasion,  was  a  little  un- 
ceremonious —  unintentionally  so. 
But  the  stranger  obeyed  the  man- 
date, and  had  evidently  no  intention 
of  ordering  the  other  stranger's  car- 
riage, as  the  superb  gentleman  who 
o  a 


196 


Mr,  HardcasUe^a  Friendly  AUentiofUy 


invented  Brighton  did  with  Mr. 
Brommell  under  similar  circum- 
Btances ;  for  before  the  waiter  could 
obey  the  Bummona  he  remarked  to 
Captain  Doncaater— 

'  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  I 
have  obeyed  your  orders.* 

'Indeed/  said  Harry;  *I  don*fc 
remember  that  you  have  served  with 
me.' 

'  No,  but  I  have  served  things /or 
you  at  Harrow ;  don't  you  remem- 
ber your  fag,  Jack  Shomclifife?' 

*  Of  course  I  do,  and  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  again,  but  should 
not  have  known  you,  you're  so 
altered.'  Mr.  ShomclifTe,  as  he  now 
appeared,  was  a  person  of  small 
stature,  particularly  neatly  and  com- 
pactly bailt,  with  a  face  that  was 
particularly  neat  and  compact  also, 
and  the  same  character  belonged  to 
his  hirsute  adornments.  He  had  a 
very  keen  eye,  and  was  very  decided 
in  speech  and  manner. 

'Well,  yon  don't  expect  me  to 
look  such  a  fool  as  I  was  then,'  said 
he.  ' I  knew  you  at  once;  saw  you 
the  night  before  last  at  the  Plungers* 
ball,  but  couldn't  speak  to  you — 
always  with  some  girl.' 

*  You  mean  you  were.' 

'  Yes,  of  course ;  you  seemed  to 
be  mooning  about  doing  nothing.' 

'  And  what  are  you  doing  your- 
self, in  another  sense?  You  were 
going  into  the  service,  but  I  never 
heard  of  you,  or  noticed  your  name 
in  Hart'  ; 

'No;  the  paternity  changed  his 
mind  about  me.  Ho  made  the  dis- 
covery that  at  least  nine  out  of  ten 
of  our  immediate  family  who  have 
gone  into  the  army  have  punctually 
•come  to  grief,  and  are  at  the  present 
time  head  over  ears  in  debt' 

Harry  could  not  deny  that  there 
4ire  officers  of  the  army  in  such  a 
predicament 

'  So  he  put  me  in  his  bank  instead, 
where  I  am  a  partner—awf  ally  rich 
— want  a  few  hundreds,  eh?* 

Harry  started  at  the  question^ 
jestingly  put  as  it  was—for  he  was 
by  no  means  used  to  such  pleasant 
inquiries.  For  a  moment  he  felt  a 
fiendish  temptation,  but  he  re- 
strained himself.  The  thing  would 
never  do,  at  any  rate  it  would  be 
premature  at  the  present  time.   Mr. 


Shomcliffe  abruptly  returned  to  the 
subject  of  the  ball. 

'I  saw  who  you  were  looking 
after  there,  the  unknown  enchan- 
tress with  the  pompous  papa.  Did 
you  find  out  who  they  were?  I 
couldn't  Governor  must  be  an 
alderman,  I  suspect:  they  came 
from  London,  that  was  all  I  could 
pick  up.' 

Harry  Doncaater  looked  a  little 
confused,  but  he^  answered  care- 
lessly— 

'  Ah !  I  know  the  people  you 
mean,  but  I  did  not  find  out  their 
names.  Of  course  I  admired  the 
lady,  like  everybody  else.' 

*  Superb  creature,'  pursued  Mr. 
Shorncliffe.  '  It  would  be  invidious 
to  particularise  where  all  is  perfec- 
tion, as  puffing  critics  say  in  the 
papers;  but  I  think  her  great  points 
are  her  eyes  and  shoulders— it  would 
be  difficult  to  say  which  are  tiie 
brightest  of  the  two.' 

Harry  Doncaster  pretended  to 
laugh  at  this  criticism,  but  did  not 
half  like  it.  Jack  Shorncliffe  pro- 
ceeded— 

'  I  suspect  her  eyes  are  too  blue 
to  be  very  bright  by  day;  but 
there  is  no  mistake  about  her  shoul- 
ders. Alabaster  is  a  ridiculous 
comparison.  There  are  no  com- 
plexions like  alabaster,  and  I  should 
be  very  sorry  if  there  were;  her 
shoulders  are  simply  like  ivory,  and 
the  elephant  tribe  ought  to  be  much 
obliged  to  me  for  the  comparison.' 

Harry  was  getting  angry  by  this 
time,  but  he  refrained  from  any 
manifestation  which  might  betray 
his  secret  (you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  he  had  a  secret),  or,  still  worse,, 
make  him  appear  ridiculous.  The 
subject  of  conversation,   too,  was 

gleasant  to  him  upon  any  terms,  so 
e  allowed  Shomcliflfe  to  proceed. 
'  I  should  like  very  much  to  know 
who  found  her  glove,'  pursued  that 
gentleman.  '  I  know  that  she  lost 
one,  for  a  man  who  saw  her  leaving 
the  ball  said  she  turned  round  to 
look  for  it  while  stepping  into  her 
carriage,  and  that  the  governor  said, 
"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  you  are  close 
at  home."  You  have  seen  the  ad- 
vertisement in  the  paper,  of  course  ? 
Ah  I  you  have  the  paper  in  your 
hand.' 


and  what  came  of  tJiem. 


197 


Harry  Doncaster,  at  the  com- 
menoement  of  this  colloquy,  had 
taken  his  seat  at  Shorncliffe's  table, 
and  had  brought  the  '  South  Down 
Eeporter  and  Devil's  Dyke  Free 
Press'  with  him,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  he  did  not  think  of  laying 
it  down.  However,  there  was  no 
betrayal  involved,  and  Harry  simply 
said  that  he  had  seen  the  advertise- 
ment, adding,  what  was  strictly 
trne,  that  he  was  as  much  mystified 
by  it  as  his  companion.  • 

But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the 
matter  did  not  end  here.  The  two 
gentlemen  spent  the  evening  to- 
gether, as  well  as  that  process  could 
be  performed  in  the  absence  of  pri- 
vate engagements;  that  is  to  say, 
they  walked  out  upon  the  new  pier, 
and  returned  at  ten  o'clock  or  so  to 
the  hotel,  where  they  were  both 
staying.  During  their  walk  the 
conversation  had  not  fallen  upon 
the  lady  of  the  lost  glove,  but  it  did 
so  when  they  returned,  and  Jack 
Shomcliffe,  growing  confidential, 
avowed  himself  an  ardent  admirer 
of  the  lady,  whose  acquaintance,  he 
said,  he  was  determined  to  make. 
The  family  lived  in  London,  he  knew, 
and  if  nobody  would  introduce  him 
he  would  introduce  himself.  He  was 
possessed,  he  added,  of  '  a  genial 
audacity  which  might  be  mistaken 
for  cheek,'  that  never  failed  in  such 
cases.  This  was  not  at  all  pleasant 
to  Harry  Doncaster;  but  he  could 
not  help  remembering  that  one 
stranger  has  as  much  right  to  be  in 
love  with  a  lady  as  another  stranger. 
When,  however,  Jack  ShomcTifife 
grew  bold  over  his  not  unqualified 
seltzer,  and  began  to  express  his 
admiration  in  a  similar  strain  to 
that  in  which  he  had  previously  in- 
dulged, Harry  remonstrated,  some- 
what to  the  speaker'sastonishment — 

'  Why,  the  lady  is  nothing  to  you?' 
said  Shomcliffe,  inquiringly. 

'  I  am  not  sure/  replied  Harry. 
And  then,  I  regret  to  say,  he  was 
weak  enough  to  own  the  state  of  his 
own  feelings,  and,  what  was  worse, 
to  acknowledge  himself  as  the  finder 
of  the  glove,  which  article  he  pro- 
duced from  his  breast-pocket  in 
proof  of  the  assertion. 

Mr.  Shomcliffe  was  very  fax  from 
relishing  this  revelation,  and  the 


pair  presently  found  one  another's 
society  not  quite  so  pleasant  as  it 
had  been  before.  They  discovered, 
in  &ct,  that  sitting  up  was  a  bore, 
and  determined  to  go  to  bed.  Harry 
Doncaster  was  the  first  to  leave.  He 
did  not  go  to  bed,  but  went  out  for 
another  walk  by  the  sea. 

When  he  returned  to  his  room  he 
felt  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat, 
remembering  that  it  would  not  be 
well  for  its  contents  to  come  under 
the  notice  of  his  servant  in  the 
morning. 

The  glove  was  gone ! 


CHAPTER  ir. 

WHAT  HAPFENEO  AT  THE  ZOOLOGICAI. 
OABDENS. 

Sunday  at  the  Zoological.  The 
season  is  drawing  to  a  close,  but  the 
day  is  one  of  the  fullest  that  there 
has  been  since  its  beginning.  Every- 
body is  there ;  but  that  ia  not  say- 
ing enough.  There  are  all  the 
necessary  nobodies  to  keep  the 
everybodies  in  countenance,  and 
save  them  from  staring  at  one 
another  like  idiots.  There  is  even  a 
Boyal  Prince  and  a  Boyal  Princess, 
and  these  illustrious  personages 
actually  seem  to  like  being  present, 
for  nobody  bores  them  with  intru- 
sive attentions. 

The  day  is  one  of  the  finest  as 
well  as  one  of  the  fullest  of  the  sea- 
son, and  the  one  fact,  I  suppose,  ac- 
counts considerably  for  the  other. 
It  has  doubtless  influenced  the  toi- 
lettes, which  are  lighter  and  airier 
thaji  ever,  as  far  as  the  ladies  are 
concerned;  and  what  wonderful 
coiffures  thefie  same  ladies  wear! 
Coiffures  seem  to  reach  their  culmi- 
nating point  at  the  Zoological;  go 
anywhere  afterwards  and  you  al- 
ways notice  a  declension. 

There  is  nothing  to  do,  of  course, 
at  the  Zoological  after  you  have  been 
to  see  some  of  your  favourite  ani- 
noials.  There  are  always  a  few  of 
these  in  fiBushion,  and  you '  do'  these 
rigorously.  This  object  accom- 
plished, you  concentrate  your  atten- 
tion upon  trying  to  get  chairs,  a 
pleasing  pursuit  which  passes  away 
an  hour  very  well.  As  everybody 
tries  to  get  chairs,  I  suppose  they 


198 


Mr,  EardeaaUe^B  Friendly  Altentiowy 


L 


are  th6  nnsiiccessful  candidates  who 
walk  about;  and  it  is  well  that 
somebody  should  so  disport  them- 
selyes,  otherwise  sitting  would  be 
comparatively  dull  work. 

An  elderly  gentleman,  to  whom  I 
wish  to  call  your  attention,  has  been 
foraging  for  seats  ever  since  he 
entered  the  gardens.  He  has  not 
regarded  the  chase,  like  more  philo- 
sophical persons,  as  an  inciaental 
piece  of  amusement,  and  has  been 
actually  out  of  temper  at  the  delay. 
But  see,  he  has  at  last  brought  dowv 
his  game,  and  comes  upon  the  grass 
with  a  chair  in  each  hand ;  and  his 
satisfoction  is  complete  when,  on 
joining  two  ladies  who  form  his 
party,  he  finds  that  one  of  them  has 
found  a  seat  for  herself.  As  he  also 
is  thus  Eared  from  standing  you 
might  suppose  that  he  would  begin 
to  be  amiable.  But  he  does  nothing 
of  fhe  kmd.  He  dislikes  the  place 
and  the  people  also,  and,  as  he  says, 
doesn't  care  who  knows  it  A  more 
insane  way  of  passing  the  afternoon 
he  cannot  conceive,  and  he  expresses 
his  dissatisfaction  in  audible  terms. 
He  is  a  portly  person  with  a  pink 
face,  dresses  scrupulously  in  black, 
with  a  white  cravat  of  a  previous 
period  of  society,  and  a  big  diamond 
brooch  in  the  bosom  of  his  shirt 
which  'would  buy  half  Northum- 
foerlee,'  if  half  Northumberlee  hap- 
pened to  be  for  sale.  Both  his  pink 
face  and  his  portliness  are  appear- 
ances in  his&vour.  Neither  is  too 
pronounced,  and  both  draw  that 
nice  line  between  prosperity  and 
apoplexy  which  one  always  rejoices 
to  see  in  elderly  gentlemen. 

Of  the  two  ladies  one  is  evidently 
his  wife  and  the  other  apparently 
his  daughter. 

His  wife  is  tall,  stately,  and  re- 
served; grandly  rather  than  gaily 
dressed,  like  many  courtly  persons 
of  her  period  in  life  whom  one  meets 
in  the  exclusive  circles  of  Madame 
Tussaud— persons  whose  manners 
have  considerably  more  than  the 
repose  .which  stamps  the  caste  of 
Vere  de  Vere;  for  so  little  influ- 
enced are  they  by  vulgar  emotion 
that  a  condescending  inclination  of 
the  head,  or  a  haughty  turn  of  that 
appendage  upon  their  aristocratic 

loulders  are  all  the   signs  they 


sh( 


deign  to  make  of  taking  the  smallest 
interest  in  their  fellow-creatures. 
The  lady  in  question  has  evidently 
modelled  herself  upon  one  of  these 
courtly  dames.  Tou  can  see  at  a 
glance  that  her  ideas  of  good-breed- 
ing are  entirely  of  a  negative  cha- 
racter; and  without  overhearing 
any  &mily  conversations  you  may 
be  sure  that  she  tells  her  daughter 
not  to  do  this  and  not  to  do  that, 
because  great  people  never  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  neglecting,  of 
course,  to  add  what  it  is  that  great 
people  do  do,  and  in  what  respects 
the  nature  of  their  activity  dififers 
from  that  of  little  people. 

Her  daughter,  ah  1  her  daughter 
is  very  different  Tou  have  heard 
some  account  of  her  in  the  artless 
criticism  of  Mr.  Shomcliffe;  for — 
there  need  be  no  mystery  in  the 
matter—she  is  indeed  the  unknown 
enchantress  of  the  Plungers*  ball! 
But  Mr.  Shomcliffe,  with  all  hia 
enthusiasm  and  powers  of  descrip- 
tion, did  nothing  like  justice  to  her 
loveliness,  which  in  its  general  cha- 
racter was  like  that  of  a  lolling  lily, 
if  you  can  fancy  a  lolling  lily  with 
an  aggressive  abundance  of  chestnut 
hair  and  eyes  the  colour  of  the  corn- 
flower. She  has,  as  Mr.  Shomcliffe 
observed,  an  ivory  delicacy  of  sur- 
f^;  but  that  gentleman  forgot  to 
mention  the  pale  coral  tints  that 
gave  it  relief.  I  am  bound  to  admit 
also,  on  my  own  account,  that  I 
have  never  beheld  a  hly,  lolling  (X 
otherwise,  arrayed  to  such  purpose 
in  pale  blue.  It  was  Solomon  in  all 
his  gloiy  and  the  Uly  combined. 

But  it  will  save  trouble  to  tell 
you  at  once  who  these  people  are. 

Mr.  Surbiton  is  principally  known 
for  having  made  a  great  deal  of 
money.  It  is  a  very  good  reputa- 
tion to  have,  and  will  carry  its  sub- 
ject a  considerable  way  into  society. 
It  is  not  quite  understood  how  the 
money  had  been  made,  except,  I 
suppose,  by  Mr.  Surbiton's  old  and 
more  immediate  friends ;  but  he  is 
supposed  to  have  begun  in  a  very 
small  way  and  ended  in  a  very  large 
way,  and  being  now  retired  he  is  of 
course  in  no  way  at  all.  But  do 
not  suppose  that  people  in  general 
care  in  what  particular  line  of  busi- 
ness the  money  had  been  made,  and 


and  wliat  came  of  them. 


199 


yery  few  would  tronble  thexoselyes 
on  the  subject  bat  for  Mrs.  Sur- 
biton's  honor  at  any  hint  of  her 
hoBband  having  been  in  trade,  which 
makes  her  Mends  laugh  occasion- 
ally, and  of  coarse  tends  to  keep 
the  fact  before  their  eyes.  Two- 
ihirds  of  her  life,  I  should  think, 
are  passed  in  trying  to  conceal  what 
she  considers  this  fisunily  disgrace, 
and,  as  feur  as  any  degree  of  success 
is  concerned,  she  might  as  well  pro- 
claim it  periodically  from  the  house- 
tops. Her  main  object  at  the  pre- 
sent time  is  to  effect  an  aristocratic 
alliance  with  her  daughter.  That 
young  lady,  by  the  way,  is  happily 
uninfluenced  by  the  pecaliarities  of 
her  parents.  Bemg  no  more  than 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age, 
she  is  not  able  to  remember  the 
humbler  state  of  the  family,  and 
having  been  educated  away  from 
home  she  is  unaJSected  by  any  of  its 
traditions. 

Scarcely  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sur- 
biton  and  their  daughter  taken  pos- 
session of  their  chairs  than  they  are 
joined  by  a  gentleman,  a  stranger, 
who  addresses  himself  to  the  head 
of  tiie  fiunily  in  a  manner  indicatiye 
of  some  special  errand. 

But  I  must  here  leave  them  to 
note  a  scene  which  is  enacting  in 

another  part  of  the  gardens. 

♦  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

Harry  I^mcaster  has  been  two  or 
three  times  up  and  down  that  long 
walk  where  the  walkeis  seem  to 
congregate  for  the  amusement  of 
the  people  in  chairs.  He  has  per- 
formed the  process  with  some  impa- 
tience, having  an  object  in  view 
apart  from  being  stared  at  But 
his  glances  right  and  left  are  evi- 
dently not  rewarded  by  the  sight  of 
some  persons  of  whom  he  seems  to 
be  in  quest,  and  after  mingling  for 
a  few  minutes  with  the  crowd  on 
the  grass  he  turns  away  as  if  for 
the  purpose  of  being  sJone.  His 
mood  is  plainly  not  a  pleasant  one, 
and  he  seems  preoccupied  to  an  ex- 
tent incompatible  with  enjoyment 
of  the  Zoological.  So  he  sits  under 
a  tree  and  has  an  int^riew  with 
himself— a  very  unsatisfactory  inter- 
view, I  should  say,  judging  from 
his  frowns  and  occasional  ejacula- 
tions.   It  would  end  in  a  violent 


quarrel,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  for  a 
diversion  caused  by  the  appearance 
of  a  stranger. 

Harry  Doncaster,  being  rather 
slender  in  figure  than  otherwise, 
did  not  occupy  the  entire  seven  or 
eight  feet  of  the  bench  upon  which 
he  had  chosen  to  rest;  so  the 
stranger  availed  himself  of  the  va- 
cant accommodation.  This  stranger 
was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  per- 
sons you  ever  beheld.  He  was 
not  a  fiftt  man,  but  he  was  cer- 
tainly a  plump  man,  with  a  beam- 
iug,  radiant  presence,  confirmed  by 
his  face,  which  was  so  happy  and 
healthy,  smiling  and  beneyolent,  as 
to  be  irresistibly  attractive.  A  san- 
guine complexion  and  sandy  hair 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with 
the  prevailing  effect,  but  the  genial 
nature  of  the  stranger  shone  espe- 
dally  in  his  eyes. 

Harry  Doncaster,  preoccupied 
though  he  was,  could  not  avoid 
notice  of  these  characteristics ;  so 
when  the  stranger  spoke  to  him  he 
did  not  resent  the  intrusion,  but 
showed  himself  to  be  fjAvourably 
impressed. 

'  You  do  not  remember  me.  Cap- 
tain  Doncaster  ?'  said  the  stranger. 

Captain  Doncaster  could  not  dis- 
pute the  proposition.  The  stranger 
continued — 

'  No  doubt  you  do  not ;  you  were 
a  small  boy  when  we  used  to  meet 
But  I  was  well  acquainted  with  your 
&ther,  the  late  viscount — ^was,  I  may 
say,  his  friend,  and  had  the  pleasure 
of  obliging  him  in  many  ways.  Al- 
ways happy  to  do  it,  too,  having  the 
greatest  respect  for  him  and  his 
family.  Beodes,  it's  always  better 
to  make  friends  than  enemies,  and 
every  man  has  it  in  his  power  to 
do  some  good  in  his  generation  if 
he  only  has  his  heart  in  the  right 
place.' 

Harry  Doncaster  was  charmed  to 
hear  such  generous  sentiments,  and 
professed  some  hereditary  gratitude 
for  the  services  rendered  to  his 
father,  not  that  he  knew  their  nature, 
but  he  guessed  that  they  might  have 
been  of  a  pecuniary  character. 

'  You  do  remember  my  name,  I 
daro  say,'  pursued  his  obliging 
neighbour — '  Matthew  Hardcastle.' 

Harry  Doncaster  thought  he  r&- 


200 


Mr.  Hardccaile's  Friendly  AUentions^ 


membered  it— was  not  sore— yes, 
he  certainly— it  seemed  familiar  to 
him— he  must  have  heard  it  at 
home  when  he  was  yonng. 

'  Ah !  I  thought  you  had  not  for- 
gotten my  name,  at  any  rate/  said 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  with  a  pleasant 
chuckle;  'and  now  let  me  tell  you 
why  I  have  recalled  myself  to  your 
recollection.  Frankly,  I  wish  to 
render  you  a  service.  There  is  too 
little  sympathy  in  this  world  be- 
tween man  and  man;  we  ought  all 
to  do  more  for  one  another  than  we 
do ;  the  curse  of  the  world  is  selfish- 


'My  dear  sir/  said  Harry  Don- 
caster,  'it  is  charming  to  hear  you 
express  such  noble  sentiments,  but 
I  am  not  aware  in  what  manner  you 
can  do  me  a  service.  I  am  full  of 
troubles,  but  they  are  of  a  nature 
very  difficult  to  provide  for,  and  a 
stranger * 

*  Not  a  stranger,'  interrupted  Mr. 
Hardcastle,  taking  Harry's  hand  and 
grasping  it  with  much  warmth; 
'  say  a  friend.  It  is  indeed  in  my 
power  to  render  you  a  service,  and 
fortunately  it  is  not  necessary  to 
test  my  friendliness  by  any  sacrifice 
on  my  own  part.  The  service  I  am 
able  to  render  you  will  cost  me 
nothing.  On  the  contrary,  I  shall 
be  a  gainer  by  conferring  an  obliga- 
tion in  another  quarter,  not  a  pecu- 
niary obligation  of  course.  What  I 
mean  is  that  I  shall  gain  the  lasthig 
gratitude  of  the  family  of  one  of  my 
oldest  friends,  and  that  is  payment 
to  me  enough.  Nobody  ever  said 
that  Matt  Hardcastle  ever  did  a 
good  action  only  for  money,  though 
that  perhaps  is  no  merit  of  mine. 
I  don  t  know  what  I  might  have 
done  had  I  been  poor,  and  we  must 
always  be  charitable  to  the  errors  of 
needy  men.  Happily  I  have  always 
been  beyond  the  reach  of  tempta- 
tion.' 

'Ton  puzzle  me,'  said  Captain 
Doncaster,  who  thought  that  his 
new  friend  would  indeed  be  a  clever 
fellow  if  he  could  do  anything  for 
him.  But  he  remembered  that  he 
had  read  of  equally  wonderful  things 
in  the  '  Arabian  Nights'  Entertain- 
ments.' 

'  Now,  let  me  be  frank  with  you,' 
Mr.  Hardcastle  continued.    '  I  know 


your  position  at  the  present  moment 
to  be  one  of  great  embarrassmentr 
I  know  that  you  have  for  years  past 
spent  a  great  deal  more  than  your 
incoma  Tou  have  had  expecta- 
tions,  doubtless,  and  were  justified 
in  so  doing;  but  these  expectations 
have  not  been  realised  as  yet,  and 
you  have  no  time  to  wait  for  them. 
I  know  that  besides  a— if  I  may  so- 
call  it— somewhat  reckless  personal 
expenditure,  pardonable  in  a  young 
man  of  family  belonging  to  an  ex- 
pensive regiment,  you  have  been- 
unfortunate  in  horses  and  have 
dropped  a  little  at  cards.  You  have 
met  debts  of  honour  by  contracting 
legal  obligations.  There  are  som» 
of  them  considerably  over  due,  and 
unless — ^in  the  immortal  words  of 
our  friend  Micawber — "something^ 
turns  up"  for  you,  you  may  be  coi^- 
sidered  in  the  light  of  a  ruined  man.*^ 

Harry  was  obliged  to  own  that 
this  was  but  too  fiuthf al  a  picture  of 
his  state  and  prospects  in  life;  but 
he  expressed  some  surprise  tbat  Mr. 
Hardcastle  should  have  arrived  at 
so  accurate  a  knowledge  of  his  con- 
dition. 

*  Never  mind  how  I  came  to  know 
it»'  said  that  gentleman  in  his  most 
genial  manner-  'I  know  a  great 
many  things  about  a  great  many 
people  that  they  little  suspect  The^ 
fact  is  that  I  have  rather  a  speciality 
for  doing  friendly  offices  for  people 
in  my  humble  way,  and  such  cases 
reach  my  ears  sooner  than  they 
reach  those  of  most  men.  Now 
there  is  only  one  way  of  extricating 
yourself  from  your  difficulties,  and 
that  one  way  is— marriage.' 

Harry  Doncaster  was  deeply  dis- 
appointed at  the  nature  of  the 
remedy  proposed.  As  if  he  had 
never  thought  of  it  before!  Why, 
it  is  the  first  idea  that  occurs  to 
every  spendthrift  who  is  hard 
pressed.  Harry  did  not  avow  this^ 
contemptuous  opinion,  however,  but 
contented  himself  with  saying— 

'  I  am  much  obliged,  my  dear  sir,, 
for  your  suggestion,  and  I  must 
confess  it  had  occurred  to  me  be- 
fore. But  there  has  always  been 
this  difficulty  in  the  way.    I  have  a 

frejudice  against  marrying  a  woman 
don't  like,  and  I  have  hithertO' 
been  unable  to  combine  the  necesr- 


and  what  came  of  them. 


201 


sary  coxiditions.  When  I  have  liked, 
or  nmcied  that  I  have  liked,  a  girl, 
she  has  always  tnrned  out  to  be 
without  a  penny,  and  richer  than 
myself  only  through  having  no 
debts.  On  the  other  hand,  women 
with  fortunes  snfiSciently  large  to 
enable  them  to  take  me,  debts  and 
all,  have  always  been  objectionable 
persons  one  way  or  another,  besides 
being  mostly  otuls.  Indeed,  women 
in  my  own  rank  of  life  are  not  to  be 
had  under  the  conditions,  and  I 
have  never  found  any  with  money 
enough  whom  I  cared  even  to  ask. 
I  am  not  very  particular  about 
grade,  but  in  any  grade  I  have 
always  met  with  the  same  difficulty. 
As  for  selling  myself  entirely  for 
the  benefit  of  my  creditors,  I  have 
not  quite  arrived  at  that  pitch  of 
heroism.  Of  the  two  I  prefer  the 
creditors  to  the  kind  of  wife  I  could 
get— Uiey  may  ruin  me,  but  they 
cannot  force  me  to  suffer  my  ruin 
in  their  society.' 

'  But  if  I  could  introduce  you  to 
a  lady  whom  you  would  be  sure  to 
like?' 

'  Thank  you  very  much,  my  dear 
sir,'  rejoined  Harry  Doncaster,  some- 
what decidedly,  and  getting  rather 
red  in  the  fBuoe, '  I  have  reasons,  at 
the  present  time,  for  not  being  pre- 
pared to  make  the  experiment' 

'  An  attachment  already  formed, 
eh?  Excuse  me — I  am  an  older 
man  than  you — for  asking  the  ques- 
tion. It  is  60, 1  see  by  your  face. 
No  doubt  it  does  you  honour,  and 
so  do  all  the  sentiments  you  have 
expressed.  It  is  something  strange 
to  meet  with  the  finer  feelmgs  in  a 
man  who  has  passed  through  your 
career.  But  supposing  that  I  could 
assist  you  with  the  object  of  your 
choice  ?* 

'  My  dear  sir,  I  have  not  told  you 
that  I  have  any  ch<Hce,  and  I  re- 
peat  ' 

'  Now,  my  dear  friend,  don't  make 
a  stranger  of  me,  who  only  wish  to 
oblige  you.  It  is  just  possible  that 
your  choice — or  shall  I  call  it  your 
fancy  ?— is  but  a  few  days  old.* 

'You  are  certainly  determined, 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  to  know  as  much  as 
I  know  myself.' 

'It  is  not  improbable  that  yon 
never  yet  spoke  to  the  lady  ?' 


'  Mr.  Hardcastle,  I ' 

'  That  you  do  not  even  know  her 
name?' 

*  You  are  most  determined  in  your 
interrogatories.' 

'  That  you  never  saw  her  but  once 
—at  a  ball?' 

'  Well,  you  evidently  know  some- 
thing about  it,'  Faid  Harry  Doncas- 
ter, his  first  instinct  of  resentment 
appeased  as  he  found  his  obliging 
friend  really  as  well  informed  as  he 
pretended  to  be. 

'  Supposing,  then,  as  I  have  said, 
I  coula  introduce  you  to  the  lady  in 
question?' 

'You  would  indeed  please  me,, 
but  I  know  not  to  what  it  could 
lead.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  cam& 
here  on  purpose  to  see  her;  but 
even  had  I  seen  her  I  should  scarcely 
have  ventured  to  introduce  myself, 
for  I  have  no  right  to  suppose  that 
either  she  or  her  family  desired  to 
meet  me,  and  the  only  excuse  I  had 
for  intruding  I  have  somehow  lost' 

'  You  have  lost  the  glove,  then?* 

'  And  you  know  about  the  glover 

'  Yes.  I  agree  with  you  that  they 
were  not  likely  to  advertise  for  suck 
a  very  unimportant  article,  and  it 
would  certainly  be  strange  if  they 
advertised  for  you.' 

'  That  is  just  what  occurred  to 
me.  And  you  have  seen  the  adver- 
tisement too?' 

'Well,  I  have  heard  about  it 
But  you  won't  want  the  glove  if  I 
present  you  myself.' 

Harry  Doncaster  could  not  with- 
stand the  temptation ;  and  in  a  few^ 
minutes  the  pair  were  in  the  midst 
of  the  promenaders,  and  peering  in 
every  direction  among  the  occu- 
pants of  the  much-coveted  chairs. 


I  left  the  Surbiton  party  taking 
their  rest,  and  being  joined  by  a 
stranger.  You  may  guess  who  it 
was—Mr.  ShomcUffe,  of  course. 

Mr.  ShomcUffe  rushed  in  where 
Captain  Doncaster  feared  to  tread ; 
but  he  considered  himself  the  lesser 
fool  of  the  two  on  that  account,  and 
I  suppose  he  was  in  the  right. 

Lifting  his  hat  with  a  half  recog- 
nition of  the  ladies^  this  enter- 
prising gentleman  addressed  him- 
self to  Mr.  Surbiton,  who  rose  from 


202 


Mr.  EardcoiUei  Friendly  AtteniionSf 


his  seat  with  a  oeriain  air  of  defer- 
ence; for  Mr.  Shomcliffe's  manners 
were  imposing— to  Mr.  Sorbiton,  at 
any  rate. 

'  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  in- 
truding upon  yon  here/  said  Mr. 
Shomcliffe,  with  composed  audacity, 
'  in  obedience  to  your  hint' 

'  My  hint,  sir/  replied  Mr.  Snr- 
biton,  surprised  out  of  politeness. 
'  What  do  you  mean  T 

'Mean,  sir!  Is  it  possible  that 
you  have  forgotten  the  Plungers' — 
the  Dragoon  Guards*  ball  at 
Brighton,  and  the  advertisement  in 
the  ''South  Down  Eeporter?"  I 
am  the  finder  of  the  glove.' 

The  latter  communication  was 
oonyeyed  in  a  low,  confidential 
tone,  as  if  it  bore  the  weight  of  a 
state  secret  Poor  Mr.  Surbiton 
was  sorely  perplexed.  As  soon  as 
he  could  find  words  to  reply,  he 
said — 

'Ball!  Yes,  I  remember  the 
ball,  and  a  yery  dull  affair  it  was. 
But  what  the  deuce  you  mean  by 
the  advertisement  and  the  glove  I 
can't  say.  Yon  must  take  me  for 
somebody  else,  or  have  gone  clean 
out  of  your  senses.' 

And  here  the  horrible  idea 
seized  upon  Mr.  Surbiton  that  he 
had  to  do  with  a  lunatic  of  a  dan- 
g^erous  kind;  so,  with  a  precau- 
tionary instinct  as  creditable  to 
him  as  his  promptitude  of  action, 
he  seiased  the  chur  upon  which  he 
had  been  sitting,  covered  himself 
with  it,  and  covered  the  ladies  with 
it,  while  awaiting  a  further  demon- 
stration on  the  o3ier  side. 

The  attitude  was  so  unusual  at 
the  Zoological  as  to  attract  the 
attention  of  several  bystanders ;  but 
they  were  well-bred  persons,  and 
did  not  precipitate  a  scene.  The 
ladies,  if  not  alarmed,  felt  very 
awkwardly  placed,  and  Mrs.  Sur- 
biton told  her  husband  in  quiet,  but 
commanding  tones,  to  resume  his 
seat,  and  hear  what  the  gentleman 
had  to  say. 

'  I  can  assure  you,  sir/  continued 
Mr.  Shomcliffe,  rather  amused  than 
otherwise,  and  speaking  round  the 
chair  for  the  benefit  of  the  ladies, 
'  that  I  am  not  a  madman,  but  am 
most  pleasantly  in  my  senses,  and 
that  I  have  intruded  myself  upon 


you  simply  because  I  supposed  you 
desired  my  presence.' 

The  explanation  seemed  at  least 
reasonable,  so  Mr.  Surbiton  was  per- 
suaded to  drop  his  defence  and  take 
his  seat  upon  it — a  pacific  movement 
which  satisfied  the  bystandera  that 
there  was  nothing  the  matter;  so 
they  moved  ofiT,  and  an  apparently 
promising  scandal  was  nipped  in 
the  bud. 

'  The  gentleman  will  tell  you,  I 
dare  say,  if  you  ask  him/  said  Mrs. 
Surbiton  severely  to  her  husband, 
'  what  he  means  by  the  advertise- 
ment' 

'  Well,  what  do  you  mean?'  said 
Mr.  Surbiton,  sulkily. 

'  I  mean  the  announcement 
which  appeared  on  Friday  in  the 
"  Southdown  Reporter,"  '  said  Mr. 
Shomcliffe,  taking  from  his  pocket 
the  paragraph  in  question,  which 
he  had  i&ksa  the  precaution  to  cut 
out 

Mr.  Surbiton  read  the  advertise- 
ment with  amazement;  then  he 
handed  it  to  Mrs.  Surbiton,  who 
read  it  and  looked  scandalized; 
then  Mrs.  Surbiton  handed  it  to 
Miss  Surbiton,  who  read  it — and 
laughed. 

The  latter  lady  was  the  first  to 
express  her  views  on  the  subject 

'  If  it  relates  to  us,  mamma,  it 
must  be  intended  as  a  piece  of  fun- 
though  not  such  fun  as  a  friend 
would  practise  upon  us.  I  cer- 
tainly dropped  one  of  my  gloves  as 
we  were  going  out;  but  nobody 
could  suppose  that  we  should 
advertise  for  such  a  thing  as  that; 
and  I,  at  any  rate,  saw  nobody  pick 
it  up.' 

'I  had  that  honour/  said  Mr. 
ShomcUffe,  not  quite  so  assuredly 
as  before,  and  addressing  himself 
still  to  Mr.  Surbiton,  though  with 
reference  to  the  young  lady,  'and 
seeing  the  advertisement,  I  was 
naturally  under  the  impression 
tbat-r-that— there  was  a  desire  to 
communicate  with  me.' 

'  Then  your  impression  was  mis- 
taken/ said  Mr.  Surbiton,  recover- 
ing his  self-possession  as  he  began 
to  understand  the  question  at 
issue.  'We  know  nothing  about 
the  advertisement  here;  somebody 
has  been  making  a  fool  of  you.' 


and  what  came  of  them* 


203 


Mr.  Shornoliffe  began  to  think 
that  he  had  at  least  been  making  a 
fool  of  himself,  and  sincerely  wished 
that  he  had  left  Doncaster  to  per- 
form his  legitimate  part  in  the 
afEair. 

'Shall  I  at  least  perform  the 
commission  which  I  have  so  inno- 
cently undertaken,  and  restore * 

Mra.  Surbiton  here  interposed, 
and  stopped  the  movement  which 
the  speaker  was  making  towards  his 
pocket 

'On  no  accotmt— such  a  pro- 
ceeding conld  not  be  permitted  in 
public— with  the  eyes  of  the  world 
upon  us— and  nobody  here  requires 
the  gloye.' 

'  If  the  gentleman  had  found  the 
little  ring  I  lost  the  same  evening 
I  should  be  obliged  to  him/  said 
Miss  Surbiton. 

But  Mr.  Shomdiffe  had  unf6r« 
tunately  not  found  a  ring. 

*At  least/  said  that  gentleman, 
as  he  made  a  movement  to  depart, 
'  I  hope  that  I  shall  be  acquitted 
of  having  taken  a  part  in  what 
seems  to  be  a  very  silly  hoax.  My 
name— which  I  dare  say  is  not  un- 
known to  Mr.  Surbiton— should  be 
some  guarantee  of  my  honourable 
motives.' 

And  here  Mr.  Shomdiffe  handed 
his  card  to  the  gentleman  whom  he 
addressed.  The  latter  glanced  at 
it,  and  his  manner  changed  imme- 
diately. 

'  Bless  me !— Mr.  John  Shom- 
diffe I  Are  you  of  the  house  of 
Grampus,  Shomdiffe,  and  Co.,  of 
Lombard  Street  ?* 

'  I  am  a  partner  in  that  firm.' 

'  My  bankers.  Then  you  are  at 
least  a  respectable  person.  My 
dear  sir,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. 
This  business  of  the  advertisement 
is  evidently  a  mistake— some  foolery 
of  those  military  coxcombs.  I  am 
very  sorry  that  you  have  been 
imposed  on.  Grampus,  Shomdiffe, 
and  Co. — first-rate  house — know 
some  of  the  partners.  You  don't 
know  me,  I  dare  say.' 

'  Yoxa  name,  I  have  no  doubt,  is 
known  to  me/  replied  Mr.  Shom- 
diffe, with  renewed  confidence  at 
the  turn  which  the  conversation 
had  taken. 

'  My  name  is  Surbiton,  sir.    Do 


you  know  me  now  ?  I  have  had  an 
account  at  your  bank— and,  I  flatter 
myself,  never  an  unsatis&ctory 
balance— for  the  last  twenty  years.' 

'  There  is  no  name  I  know  better 
—none  more  honoured  in  the  firm — 
than  yours.  I  am  proud  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Surbiton.' 

'  And  I  am  proud  to  make  yours  ; 
though  I  must  confess  I  thought  at 
first  you  were  a  swindler.  Nevermind 
— mistakes  will  happen.  And  now  I 
know  who  you  are  let  me  introduce 
you  to  my  wife  and  daughter.' 

The  wife  and  daughter  duly 
acknowledged  the  introduction  — 
neither  of  them,  however,  with  any 
unnecessary  graciousness ;  for  Mrs. 
Surbiton,  now  that  her  husband  had 
retired, '  did  not  approve  of  people  in 
business/  an'd  Miss  Surbiton  did  not 
find  herself  taking  much  interest  in 
the  person  upon  short  notice* 
However,  Shomdiffe  had  gained 
his  point,  and,  attaching  himself 
sagaciously  to  the  quarter  where 
he  had  made  an  impression,  he 
talked  'City'  to  Mr.  Surbiton  with 
such  success  as  to  fairly  win  that 
gentleman's  heart 

The  aftemoon,  which  was  young 
when  they  entered  the  gardens,  had 
been  middle-aged  for  some  time 
past,  and  now  showed  signs  of 
growing  old.  On  every  side  people 
were  seeking  social  safety  in  flight. 
Chai